


Home Again

by polemisti



Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [3]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood and Injury, Depression, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Fix-It, Gaslighting, Implied Sexual Content, Imprisonment, Lucien Vanserra-centric, M/M, Minor Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Minor Feyre Archeron/Tamlin, Missing Scene, Not Beta Read, POV Lucien (ACoTaR), Poor Lucien Vanserra, Suicidal Thoughts, Tamlin The Tool, Unhealthy Relationships, Whump, abusive tamlin, here's a lucien redemption arc that doesn't invalidate all his actions by making it about elain lmao, lucien is complicit in abuse, lucien isn't an asshole, past rhys/lucien, rhysand tries to help but he has a lot on his plate rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 35,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polemisti/pseuds/polemisti
Summary: “I missed you,” Tamlin growled into Lucien’s ear, “I missed you and now you’re here, you’re mine again.” And he was. They were home, Lucien was in his high lord’s arms again and they were home. They had all the time in the world.And if Tamlin didn’t hold him like he was precious, it was a compliment more than anything. His high lord knew Lucien wouldn’t break. Even after Amarantha, after the second trial, after twenty lashes, Tamlin knew Lucien wasn’t weak. He trusted him.-Or, Lucien, Tamlin, and Feyre have returned to the spring court after the nightmare under the mountain. As Tamlin grows more controlling and paranoid, and Feyre grows more frustrated, Lucien watches, doing what he can to help his friend while also trying to stay loyal to his high lord.-Mostly cannon compliant, just a little gayer and from the perspective of Lucien instead of Feyre.
Relationships: Alis & Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron & Lucien Vanserra, Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Rhysand & Lucien Vanserra, Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra
Series: Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896466
Comments: 228
Kudos: 97





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Here's my third Lucien fic! Its unfinished as of now, but I have 2 more chapters planned and will write more as I read more. As always, I'm writing these as I'm reading the books, so as I post this, I haven't finished ACOMAF. Please keep that in mind if you see any major plot holes or inconsistencies that are addressed later in the series. This is essentially a minor tweak to Lucien's character to give him more depth and show you guys what he's experiencing during ACOMAF.  
> Also, please keep in mind that Lucien/Tamlin is purposefully written as an unhealthy couple. I'll go into that more at notes at the end of this chapter.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

Tamlin fucked him on the second day they had returned from under the mountain. Not in Tamlin’s bed, not in Lucien’s, but in the dining room. Tamlin had pushed Lucien’s face into the cool window looking out onto the rose gardens as he thrust, fiery and passionate. Somehow, it wasn’t what Lucien was expecting. He had dared to hope, maybe, for a quiet exploration of each other. He had hoped Tamlin would trail soft kisses along him as he checked for wounds, examining the scars, old and new, which littered Lucien’s body.

“I  _ missed _ you,” Tamlin growled into Lucien’s ear, “I missed you and now you’re here, you’re  _ mine _ again.” And he was. They were home, Lucien was in his high lord’s arms again and they were  _ home. _ They had all the time in the world.

And if Tamlin didn’t hold him like he was precious, it was a compliment more than anything. His high lord knew Lucien wouldn’t break. Even after Amarantha, after the second trial, after twenty lashes, Tamlin  _ knew _ Lucien wasn’t weak. He  _ trusted _ him.

“Come to my bed tonight,” Lucien said as he pulled up his pants. With a snap of Tamlin’s fingers, the silverware which had clattered to the floor was spotless and in the correct place.

“I can’t,” Tamlin husked.

“Why not?” Lucien asked, still slightly dazed from the afterglow. The sun was so warm on his skin, on the skin around his  _ eyes _ . No biting metal anymore. Just flesh. Tamlin, who looked just as he had fifty years ago. He, too, pulled up his pants.

“Feyre—it's hard for her to sleep alone. After—”

“Yes, fine,” Lucien waved his high lord off, “Go sleep beside the newest high fae of the spring court. You  _ beast, _ ” Lucien jested, and yelped when he was once again pinned to the wall, facing Tamlin this time. The high lord’s grin was  _ feral _ .

“What did you call me?” Tamlin murmured into Lucien’s neck, toothy and animal smile grazing his jaw.

“My esteemed high lord, of course,” Lucien smiled too.

* * *

Feyre flinched when Lucien walked into rooms, and it took him a while to figure out why. His  _ hair. _ How much did he look like the queen when only seen through the corner of someone’s eye? He tied it back, when he could. He almost considered a haircut. Feyre had done too much for Prythian for Lucien not to be willing to sacrifice a little hair. But in the end, he was too busy to get anything so cosmetic done. And she didn’t  _ always  _ flinch. He prayed time would wash away some of the pain she held so coiled and tight in her chest.

* * *

He shouldn’t be angry. He didn’t have the  _ right _ to be angry.

He was angry anyway.

He grabbed Tamlin by the shoulder and winnowed them to a field of wildflowers. The sentries shouldn’t see what Lucien was about to do.

“ _ Engaged _ ?” he  _ roared _ . He felt the flames of his birth court heat his blood and spike his veins.

Tamlin shoved Lucien’s hand off of him, eyes flashing with confusion and anger.

“Yes, Lucien. Engaged. What is  _ wrong  _ with you?”

“You didn’t think to  _ tell  _ me before you made such an  _ important _ decision? I’m your second in command, your  _ emissary—” I am more than that. I am yours. _

__ Tamlin’s growl was low and dangerous.  _ Tread carefully, _ it said. The breeze was too warm, too pleasant for the occasion.

“I consulted Ianthe before proposing.” Lucien scoffed.  _ Ianthe _ . He could laugh at that. Another warning growl from Tamlin. “I didn’t know you were so passionate about Feyre and I’s relationship, Lucien. Remember it was  _ you _ who  _ asked _ me to pursue her,  _ begged  _ me, even.”

“Don’t play the  _ idiot, _ Tam. I ‘ _ begged’ _ you to because there was a curse hanging over our heads. A curse you didn’t even break in the end, if I remember correctly.” His words were sharp and hot.

“And now that my feelings have remained, you have grown  _ bitter, _ and hateful.” Lucien didn’t allow the blow to sting as he knew Tamlin wanted it to.

“This isn’t about  _ her _ , it's  _ about  _ you and I. I’ve known you for  _ centuries  _ longer than—”

“I’m sorry!” Tamlin roared, sounding anything but. “Last I checked, you can’t bear  _ children _ , and thus, I couldn’t marry you if I  _ wanted _ to.”

That— _ that _ stung. When had his manhood been a condition for their love? He didn’t let the blow show on his face.

“Is what I have given you not enough?” Tamlin continued. “Safety from your family, a position by my side, diplomatic  _ fucking _ immunity,  _ an eye _ ? Nothing would be good enough for you. Everything I’ve sacrificed, it’s  _ never _ enough.”

Lucien faltered.

“Of course it's enough.” Lucien said, so soft he barely heard himself say it. And again, “Of course it's enough. It’s  _ more  _ than enough—too much, sometimes. Tam,” his voice cracked, “Tam, please tell me these things. Let me prepare, let me steel myself before I have to listen to you fuck her as she says ‘yes, yes, of course I’ll marry you, Tamlin.’ I can’t live more than one step behind you. Not anymore.”

He looked up, and Tamlin stood before him,  _ broken. _ His expression was distraught and angry and self-loathing. Guilt flooded through Lucien’s veins, flushing out the autumn fire. He was exhausted.

“Tam…”

“You’re stressed.” Tamlin decided, taking a tentative step forward, “I can see that now. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I should have told you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” And he was. Lucien could feel it in the air, in the way his high lord moved.

Tamlin took another step towards Lucien, and another. He pressed his forehead against the emissary’s,  _ intimate, sorrowful. _

The high lord,  _ his  _ Tamlin, ran a hand along Lucien’s face, along his cheek and neck and shoulder and arm. When he kissed the emissary, it was soft. His apology poured through his mouth, and Lucien was overwhelmed by it. But Tamlin wrapped a hand around Lucien’s waist before the emissary could lose his balance. The high lord held Lucien soft and gentle against himself, an apology with every movement.

“You are mine,” Tamlin soothed into Lucien’s neck, and Lucien felt himself melt softly into the words. He was Tamlin’s. That was enough.

* * *

Things were better, and as time went on, they continued to improve. Still, the household had its moments of tension, and Amarantha’s beasts still proved a formidable threat within the spring court’s boundaries.

Ianthe was another problem. Her constant attempts and flattery and flirtation made Lucien’s blood boil. And when Tamlin and Feyre fought, it shook the house. Tamlin regularly threw things, and Feyre roared with a rage which bested lions.

“We are all under a lot of stress,” Lucien would try to say, “We need to present a united front to our own court and others. You are safest on the grounds. The village will do fine without you.” And when she would scowl, he’d try again, “Why don’t we go to the gardens to paint. I’ll even pose nude for you, if you want.” he’d joke. She wouldn’t smile. He tried to avoid the subject of painting from then on.

And then the naga.

“Fuck,” Lucien groaned, eyes blurring and pain shooting in his leg. “ _ Fuck _ ,”

The naga did not share similar sentiments as they pounced. The one which had tackled him off his— _shit,_ his _horse._ _Please don’t be dead—_ The one who tackled him off his horse was the closest, and it was sheer luck that he picked the right figure to thrust his blade into. He was seeing double. _Shit, fuck, shit_.

He stabbed the second in the same place on its body, wrenching the blade up—cracking ribs—as he rose from the dirt. He felt hot blood spatter on his face and neck.

A terrified neigh—his  _ horse _ . Alive, for now.

By the time he stood, he was no longer seeing double.  _ Three more. _ He struck them down quickly. Only one got another hit in, claws slicing into the emissary’s wrist. That one too, was slain quickly and bloodily.

When it was over, when the ringing in his ears had given way to the forest’s soft silence and his own labored breath, he sagged, blade still in hand. His horse, a hearty beast, stood from where she had collapsed. By some cauldron miracle, she didn’t seem to have broken anything. Still, she seemed nervous, and Lucien didn’t want to bloody his saddle. They would both walk, then.

“If you had died, I could just winnow back,” he grumbled in her ear. She huffed in response, offended. “Piss off, you know I didn’t mean it.”

The walk back to the manor was long and painful. His leg was bleeding slowly, but he could feel it heal. He’d be fine in a day or two.

When he saw the first sentry near the manor, he could have sighed with relief. 

“Bron,” he barked, and watched as the sentry’s eyes widened. “Take my mare and return her to the stables.”

He only nodded, taking the reins before Lucien winnowed away, into his room.

It was mercifully empty. Lucien peeled away his armor, which had been damaged by the naga’s claws. There was gauze in his room,  _ somewhere _ , to wrap his leg with.

“ _ Fuck it,” _ He wasn’t going to die from a leg wound after being tackled off a horse. He had survived  _ Amarantha _ , his  _ brothers _ , his  _ father.  _ Once his armor was off, he collapsed onto the bed—ignoring the gauze, the wound. He was  _ tired _ . Everything ached and stung and he was  _ tired. _

He had only slept for fifteen minutes—at most—before he was woken by a bang.

His door, he realized groggily, dagger already held in front of him.

_ Tamlin _ .

He set the dagger down.

Tamlin rushed over to him quickly, his face so worried and protective it made Lucien’s heart ache.

“What  _ happened, _ ” the high lord hissed, running a hand along Lucien’s face and upper body, scanning for injuries. When he saw,  _ smelled _ , the blood on his leg and the sheets, he froze. His eyes were laced with fury when he met Lucien’s.

“Stop being so dramatic,” Lucien said, slumping into Tamlin’s arms, “I’m fine. I was just going to heal it before you walked in.”

“Heal it now.” Tamlin growled into Lucien’s ear, and Lucien’ groggy and dazed, did as he was told. He didn’t have the magic, or the energy, to heal it fully, but the cut on his hand sealed closed, and the wound at his leg shut slowly and scabbed over. A bruise would form, and he would limp for a day or two, but if he healed it any more he would pass out.

Tamlin growled in approval.

“What happened.”

“Naga. Five of them.”

“Was anyone else hurt?”

“No.”

Tamlin paused. “You were alone.” Lucien could feel another snarl growing in his chest. Slowly, gently, Tamlin lowered Lucien back onto the bed, waving the blood on his clothes and the sheets away with a flick of his hand. Lucien allowed himself to be maneuvered.

“Tam,” Lucien whispered, as his high lord brushed the hair out of his emissary’s eyes.

“ _ Never _ do that again.” Tamlin hissed, pained.

“Okay,” Lucien murmured, falling asleep.

“What  _ happened  _ to you, Lucien?” Feyre asked the next morning. A warning look from Tamlin told the emissary what his response was to be.

Lucien shrugged, rubbing his leg. “Fell off my horse.”

“And Alis calls  _ me  _ clumsy,” Feyre murmured under her breath.

“I heard that,” Lucien groaned, sitting down and stabbing his breakfast.

Tamlin nodded so minutely that Lucien knew only he saw it.  _ Good. You won’t tell her what happened. There is no need to worry my bride over your own foolish decisions. A united front. _ Lucien nodded—equally minutely—back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thoughts on Tamlin/Lucien as a pairing:  
> Y'all, I could write a whole essay about how Lucien is complicit in the abuse and manipulation he faces. But I just want to leave you with this.
> 
> Tamlin pulls the classic 'abuse then honeymoon' cycle on Feyre. He fucks up, he says sorry and promises to never do it again, and then he does it again. Over and over. With Lucien, its even more complex, because Tamlin saved him all those years ago, and has since provided him a position as emissary, a place to live, and protection from his family. With the added power dynamic, you get Tamlin, who is always in control over their relationship, and Lucien, who accepted this centuries ago, and is emotionally manipulated by Tamlin to remain complicit. Its going to take a lot more convincing to get Lucien to leave Tamlin, but maybe a special someone from one of my other fics in this series will be able to convince him to leave. Maybe not, we'll see.
> 
> The POINT is, if you are ever treated like Lucien is treated in this story, run. This is not romance, its abuse.


	2. The Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And Rhysand's back! All of the stories in this series take place in the same hc, so the events of 'twenty lashes' did happen prior to this story.

Getting word to Rhysand was… difficult. Lucien’s spies had never been able to infiltrate the night court for any significant amount of time. But, he had a spy who knew a spy who knew someone in the Hewn city, and word eventually got around to Rhysand that ‘Lucien from the Spring Court’ wished to talk, because when he woke up early one morning, there was a slip of paper on his night stand. A place and a time. Lucien barely had time to memorize the note before it burst into flames in his hand, shriveling away into ash.

He had three hours. Not to get somewhere on the Spring court’s lands, but to reach south of the  _ wall _ . Even winnowing, he doubted he’d make it in time. He left a note on Tamlin’s desk:  _ Meeting a spy. I’ll be home for dinner. _

And he was gone.

After three hours of winnowing, each jump only a mile or two, he made it, and was an hour late. When no one was at the meeting spot—a clearing in the frozen forests south of the wall—he wondered if he had missed the high lord. Rhysand didn’t seem like the type of man to wait an hour for anyone. And then he felt a familiar wave of cold darkness, and Rhysand was there. 

His hands were, as they usually were, in his pockets. He wore traditional night court attire, dark and sheer, and looked bored. His eyes flashed as he met with Lucien’s.

“I haven’t been able to really look at you since the mask came off. I must say, you have phenomenal cheekbones.”

Lucien tried not to snarl.

“Rhysand—”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.” Rhysand smiled like a viper, taking a single step towards the emissary. “What do you want?”

Lucien ground his teeth, but took a small breath, and spoke. “I want to know what you’re doing. If you were planning on forgetting your bargain, you know damn well the spring court will accommodate, but if you’re planning something—”

“How  _ is _ Feyre? Has the vomiting stopped? The dreams?” Rhysand picked at his nails.

Lucien snarled. “Rhys.”

“And  _ wedding  _ planning. Moving a bit  _ fast _ , don’t you think?”

Lucien sighed. The air formed a small cloud in front of him.

“Yes, Rhys,  _ wedding  _ planning. They are getting  _ married. _ You can’t expect we will allow you to just  _ take  _ her.”

Rhys took another step forward, and his violet eyes seemed to flash in the noonlight. Though moments ago the sun was at its highest point in the sky, Lucien felt a darkness ripple around them both.

“ _ Allow _ me?” His expression was unreadable. Lucien had been frightened of Rhysand before Amarantha took her powers. Now that the high lord had them back… Lucien felt his bones chill.

“Rhys,” Lucien tried, lowering his gaze to the high lord’s shoulder. Anything but his eyes. “You know Tamlin would trade  _ anything  _ to break your bargain. I would, too.  _ Think. _ Put your hate for him aside for a  _ moment _ and  _ think _ about what you could gain from this.”

Silence, for a moment. Oppressive, dark silence.

And then Rhys shrugged, and it all fell away. All of his power, the dangerous glint in his eyes. He, once again, looked bored.

“No deal, Lucien. Enjoy the wedding.”

And he was gone.

* * *

Lucien tried not to feel sick as he stood beside Tamlin a week later, the exciting silence of a wedding buzzing around them. Feyre would approach her groom any moment now, and Lucien felt like vomiting. He hadn’t told Tamlin about his visit with Rhysand—the high lord would have thrown something, and there was really nothing to tell. But now, a week later, dread pooling in his stomach, Lucien stood beside his high lord and tried to school his features.

He couldn't watch. He couldn’t watch Feyre marry Tamlin, as much as he loved them both. No,  _ because  _ he loved them both, he couldn’t watch. He unfocused his eyes as Feyre approached, watching her, but not paying attention as he did. He vaguely processed how awful she looked in her hideous dress. He drowned out the noise, the footsteps, the hitch in Tamlin’s breath.

And then there was thunder. And  _ that _ Lucien couldn’t drown out.

“Hello, Feyre darling.” Rhys.  _ Shit _ .

The whole ordeal was over in less than five minutes, and Rhysand, along with Feyre, were gone. Ianthe, too, though cauldron knows where she went.

Tamlin was about to break, Lucien could see it bright as day on his face. Rage and sorrow and dozens of other equally complex emotions flashed on the high lord’s face, and Lucien, perhaps driven by instinct, grabbed his arm. Before anyone could say a word, he winnowed them back to the estate, back home.

“ _ Everyone out, _ ” Lucien roared. This would not be pretty.

And it wasn’t.

Lucien side stepped as his high lord threw a vase.

“Tam.” Lucien tried, though he knew already it would be fruitless. 

Tamlin, as expected, ignored him. His claws were out, and his eyes nearly glowed. He roared with a ferocity which shook the house.

“Out,” Tamlin growled, viscous glare leveled on Lucien, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not leaving.” Lucien decided, but Tamlin had already moved on. A table, splintered. The walls he tore apart with his claws. When there was nothing left to destroy in the dining room, he moved on to the parlor, the study, the kitchen. The entire lower level of the house he ripped to shreds, and when that wasn’t enough, he moved upstairs, and did the same to Feyre’s room, and to his own.

When he ripped open  _ Lucien _ ’s door, the emissary had had enough. He winnowed in front of where the high lord stood, and placed a warning hand on his chest.

“Stop, Tamlin.”

Tamlin growled, and wrenched Lucien’s hand down. In a heartbeat, Lucien was pinned to a wall—which one, he didn’t know. Tamlin’s breath was heavy and hot against Lucien’s neck, and Lucien opened his mouth to say something before pain shocked him, blooming from where Tamlin had just  _ bit _ him. He felt hot blood trickle down his neck and chest, felt Tamlin lap it up.

“ _ Tamlin _ ,” Lucien hissed, but the high lord wasn’t listening. He bit into Lucien again, on the other side this time, and Lucien felt the same pain once more. “ _ Tam _ ,” Lucien tried, a pathetic whimper this time.

“ _ You _ are mine. And so is Feyre. He will  _ see _ what happens when you touch what is  _ mine _ .” He took a moment to lap up the blood. Lucien’s arms were still pinned against the wall. “You won’t leave this house, you won’t heal my claim until she  _ returns _ . Do you understand?” And Lucien knew what Tamlin needed. After today, after being told no, his high lord needed to be revered, loved, agreed with.

So, as pain throbbed in his neck collarbone, as his arm was sore from the chair he had failed to dodge ten minutes ago, he nodded minutely.

“I understand, Tam.” And he did.

The next morning, Lucien, groggy from the night before—groggy with familiar memories of rage and biting and angry sex against walls and on the floor, and finally,  _ finally _ , in one of the beds which hadn’t been destroyed—Lucien felt another scrape of pain. Where the wounds in his neck had scabbed over in the night, Tamlin reestablished them. New blood pooled from his veins, spilling on his hair and staining his skin.

“Tamlin, please,” Lucien softly begged.

Tamlin growled, and flipped Lucien over. The emissary was too sore to do anything but let it happen. Tamlin  _ needed  _ this, he reminded himself. And maybe Lucien needed it too. Hadn’t he been begging to get fucked in a bed for months? And now he had the audacity to complain?  _ Selfish _ .  _ This is what you wanted. You wanted him all to yourself, and now that you have it, you’re complaining. You’re whining like a brat. _

Tamlin stayed true to his word. He warded the house, keeping Lucien locked inside like a  _ prize. _ The emissary tried to leave anyways, but it was fruitless; the high lord’s cage had strong bars. Every morning, and sometimes in the evening, too, the high lord would bite Lucien again, always forbidding him from healing the wound, the  _ claim. _

“You are  _ mine _ .”

“Yes, Tam, I am yours.”

After the third day, he stopped thrashing when the teeth sunk into his flesh. He no longer needed to be pinned down by Tamlin. The high lord tended to hold him down anyway.

Slowly, the servants and sentries returned. The house, day by day, was repaired. Tables and chairs were replaced, priceless vases and artwork swept away. By day, Lucien helped Tamlin organize sentries and plans for attack in case Rhys didn’t return with Feyre after the week was up. By night, Lucien helped his high lord in other ways. In any way Tamlin needed.

And then Feyre was back.

Lucien noticed her first, dressed in her night court attire. She looked—she looked better than Lucien felt, at least.

“Glad to see you in once piece, Feyre.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It'll probably get worse before it gets better, but depending on how the cannon series ends, (i'm still on book two), we may be able to find a happy ending for Lucien.
> 
> Please comment, its so motivating, but if you don't feel comfortable leaving a comment, know that I still appreciate you and thank you for taking the time to read this angst-fest.


	3. Chapter 3

Dinner was as good as it always was. But the energy in the dining room, tense and crackling like lightning, dampered his hopes for a peaceful evening. Lucien tried to keep his eyes on his plate, away from Tamlin, fuming, and away from Feyre, who was wearing no jewelry. 

“What is it,” Feyre said, sharp, and knowing exactly what ‘it’ was.

“You know what it is. You gave the water wraith your jewelry. Jewelry  _ I  _ gave you.”

“We have a damned house full of gold and jewels.”

_ Here we go. _ The vicious look both Feyre and Tamlin shot him told Lucien he had said the thought aloud.

“Why shouldn’t I give them to her? Those things don’t mean anything to me. I’ve never worn the same piece of jewelry twice! Who cares about any of it?”

Tamlin looked ready to burst. “Because you undermine the laws of this court when you behave like that. Because this is how things are done here, and when you hand that gluttonous faerie the money she needs, it makes me—it makes this entire court—look weak.”

_ Calm down, they both need to calm down. _

“Don’t you talk to me like that,” Tamlin’s claws grew from his flesh, and the way Feyre raised, hands bracing at the table so hard Lucien feared he would hear the wood creak—neither of them were going to calm down any time soon. “You still have no idea what it was like for me—to be on the verge of starvation for months at a time. And you can call her a glutton all you like, but I have sisters, too, and I remember what it felt like to return home without any food. So maybe she’ll spend all that money on stupid things—maybe she and her sisters have no self-control. But I’m not going to take that chance and let them starve, because of some ridiculous rule that your ancestors invented.”

Lucien suppressed a flinch.

“She meant no harm, Tam,” the emissary tried,  _ pleading _ . 

“I know she meant no harm.” The high lord’s words were laced with venom.  _ Stay out of this _ he said with his eyes alone.

Lucien ignored the warning.

“Worse things have happened. Worse things  _ can  _ happen. Just relax.”

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Tamlin shot back, and  _ no,  _ his high lord hadn’t asked for his opinion. This—he should have left the room fifteen minutes ago, he  _ never  _ should have—

Lucien felt sick. A familiar heaviness laced every cell in his body as it felt like his bones were made of iron, like he wasn’t just carrying one soul in him, but that he was carrying two. The feeling had Rhys written all over it.

Rhys. Rhys, who had fucked him the night before the last trial. A night which had not felt like love more than it had release—release for both of them as they held onto shreds of hope doomed to wither and die. Shreds of hope that, through a cauldron blessed miracle, had survived the third trial and beyond. A shred of hope which had been slowly growing since that night, since their release from the mountain. And before that, before that night, Rhys had visited him. He had said ‘you should have come to my court, all those years ago.’ And maybe Lucien should have. Or maybe he should’ve found a cliff and jumped off. Nothing has felt the same since Jes. His mate, even now he knew it, he  _ knew _ the mating bond would have snapped into place, had they just been offered more  _ time _ —

In an instant the thoughts fell away.

_ Dinner, Rhys. _

But Rhys wasn’t there. He felt only Feyre’s gaze on him, open and raw. Lucien didn’t look at her, he knew he would give away what he knew.  _ Feyre _ had entered his mind. She had seen—Lucien didn’t know how much she saw,  _ what _ she saw. What she remembered from his own mind.

Faintly, like through water, Lucien heard Tamlin growl out something about dinner. Feyre growled something equally menacing in return. Lucien willed the food in his stomach to stay down.

When Rhys took Feyre the second time, Tamlin was kind enough not to rip apart half the house. Instead, he took his rage out on Lucien.  _ And that was fine _ , Lucien told himself.

_ This comes with the territory. He trusts you enough to tell you these things. He trusts you enough to be vulnerable about you. And when he bites at my neck, tearing into sensitive flesh, he is marking his claim. He is doing what I have been asking him to do for centuries, he is telling others who I belong to. I love him. I love him and he loves Feyre and I. _

The shields on the house remained. Lucien did not— _ could  _ not leave the manor. But that was okay. Tamlin was keeping him safe. Keeping him  _ safe _ .

In a week, Feyre returned, and Lucien was free. The wounds on his neck, no longer needed to keep Tamlin calm, were healed away with magic, like nothing had ever happened. Lucien spent that first afternoon outside, savoring the sunlight on his face. Being stuck in the house hadn’t been that bad, not really. But now that he was out, now that he could love Tamlin anywhere he wished—it was nice, the sunlight; the warmth and the soft breeze on his face.

* * *

Feyre tried to ask Lucien what threats the spring court faced, what drew them away from the house so often. And Lucien itched to tell her the truth, why they  _ really _ left, what they  _ really  _ searched for. He felt the words scratch and claw at his throat. But his high lord, his lover, his  _ Tamlin _ , had forbid it, and as much as he loved Feyre like the sister he never had, he kept the words locked away.

Tamlin and Lucien left the house for eight days, and it was nice. It was nice to have Tamlin to himself, without the sharp gaze of Ianthe, without the anger and rage of losing Feyre hanging over them.

When the pair returned, Lucien felt the nerves slowly rise in him. Something about this  _ place _ —and Feyre. Feyre, who had saved them all. Feyre, who still flinched when he saw the emissary. Feyre looked terrible. The realization felt like turning a lock. His friend, his people’s savior, his future lady, looked  _ sick _ . Her body looked thin and sickly, and her skin had taken on a pale gray hue. The bruises under her eyes told tales of restless nights and tossing nightmares. And beneath her sickly figure, behind her pale skin and tired eyes, Lucien saw rage boiling in her. He turned to Tamlin, but his high lord was gone. When he looked back to Feyre, he saw claws.

Tamlin was busy. Tamlin wouldn’t listen anyway. As subtle as he could, Lucien gestured for Feyre to follow him upstairs. They walked softly to the second floor study. His voice was low when he spoke, the wooden door closed behind him.

“How long have the claws been appearing?” The trip into his mind and now  _ this _ . She was falling apart in front of him, she needed help and no one was  _ listening  _ to her. He didn’t know why the realization hurt him so much.

“That was the first time.”

_ She looks sick _ . Lucien needed to  _ help her. _

“There’s only so much I can do,” He knew he sounded hoarse. But he needed—he could help, he could  _ try _ , at the very least. “But I’ll ask him tonight. About the training. The powers will manifest whether we train you or not, no matter who is around. I’ll ask him tonight.” He wished he could offer more. He  _ wished— _

Feyre had left the room.

* * *

Lucien _hurt_. The pulse of magic Tamlin had radiated when his emissary had tried to convince his high lord to see _reason_ , it hadn’t done anything specific—hadn’t sent anything flying, or caused any clear wounds or bruises, but Lucien was _sore._ He was sore and _angry_. So he left the estate. Winnowed away once Tamlin had moved on, once there was no one there to notice. A part of him _screamed_. _You’re betraying him. You will regret this, he is your high lord, he saved you._

Lucien let that part of him scream. He let it slam its fists and throw a fit in his mind, but he did not allow it to slow his step as he winnowed south, and south again. The rage in him kept him upright as he strained himself—strained his magic and his own sense of self.

South, and south again. Past the wall, and south some more.

He was waiting for Lucien when he arrived. How he had known—Lucien didn’t think about it.

“You need to train her.” Lucien snarled into the darkness before him.

“Hello to you too, Lucien.” Of course Rhys would look good in the starlight. It was midnight, and though he did not look radiant, for it would be against his nature, the darkness which flowed from him, the way the moon and starlight hit his face… Lucien lost himself for a moment taking the high lord of the night court in. He gathered himself as quickly as he could, speaking before the rage in him simmered into guilt.

“Train her, Rhys. Treat her—”  _ better? Better than Tamlin does _ ? Lucien didn’t know what word got stuck in his throat, wouldn’t let himself consider what he might have said. “She’s—she’s breaking.” Lucien had never felt more genuine.

Rhys was silent for a moment. His gaze was sharp as he looked over the emissary.

“She’s not the only one breaking,” the high lord said after a moment, hands in his pockets.

_ No. _ This wasn’t about Lucien. This  _ couldn’t _ be about Lucien. It was a trick, it was—

Lucien felt a hand, surprisingly warm, on his cheek.

_ Let me show you what I see. _

In an instant, he was no longer looking at Rhys, but was looking at  _ himself  _ through Rhys’ eyes. He looked—awful. He was hunched, and his face was hollow and set in stone. His eyes were wide and frightened, and he looked like a doe more than the second in command to a high lord. And then, less than a moment later, he was back in his own body, looking at Rhys.

“Don’t—” Lucien cut himself off. He looked up at Rhys, looked into his cool and collected gaze, and saw the faintest wisp of pity on his face. For  _ him _ . As if  _ Lucien  _ should be pitied at all. He—he was the second in command to a high lord, he had survived and fought and  _ won _ and he—

“Good night, Rhysand,” Lucien said darkly, and winnowed away. 


	4. House Arrest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter today, but a pretty vital one for the story.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me, it took me longer than I expected to edit this chapter.

A throbbing headache met Lucien when he woke the next morning. He tripped more than walked to the mirror, and met eyes with a man he barely recognized. Not the man he had known for so many years, but the man Rhys had shown him last night. Tired, bitter, and sad.  _ But… but…  _

Tamlin needed him.

Lucien moved slowly, methodically, as he double checked the straps of his armor an hour later. The blade at his side felt uncharacteristically heavy. And then Feyre was there, padding down the stairs right as the high lord and his emissary were readying to leave. To face whatever threat faced them. She looked no better than Lucien felt.

“You’re going so soon?” She sounded so  _ broken _ .

“There’s activity on the western sea border. I have to go,” Tamlin said.

And then Feyre surprised them both.

“Can I come with you?” She asked, and Lucien paused. Tamlin would never say yes, he knew that before Feyre had finished her sentence. But—Lucien would have asked the same, he realized. He winced at the realization, at the fight which was sure to erupt from Feyre’s boldness.  _ Don’t test him. Not right now. _

Lucien tried to listen to something— _ anything else _ as he looked out upon the Spring Court.

When Tamlin growled, “Don’t even think about it. Don’t even try to come after us,” Lucien knew he had missed something vital.

He watched Feyre’s face—so like Lucien’s own.

“I can fight,” Feyre tried, “Please.” When Tamlin ignored her, Feyre followed him, “There will always be some threat. There will always be some conflict or enemy or something that keeps me in here.”

“You can barely sleep through the night,” Tamlin said. That wasn’t fair.  _ None of them could sleep through the night. Not after under the mountain. Not after what they had all been through. _

Feyre seemed to share Lucien’s internal sentiment. “Neither can you.”

Tamlin, “You can barely handle being around other people—” Lucien thought about all the times Feyre had flinched at the sight of him in the corner of her eye. 

“ _ You promised _ ,” Feyre tried, pleading. This wasn’t going to end well. But if Lucien got involved, if he tried to deescalate—Tamlin had made it clear how unnecessary he found Lucien’s opinion in matters like these. He kept his mouth shut. “I need to get out of this house.”

“Have Bron take you and Ianthe on a ride—”

“I don’t want to go for a ride! I don’t want to go for a ride, or a picnic, or pick wildflowers. I want to do something. So take me with you.”

“Even if I risked it, your untrained abilities render your presence more of a liability than anything.”

“I’m coming along whether you want me to or not.” Strong. Feyre was so strong. Stronger than Lucien, stronger than Tamlin. The thought washed away as quickly as it came.

And Tamlin, viscous: “No, you aren’t.”

Lucien felt the pulse of magic, recognized it immediately.  _ No. Not Feyre. _

The emissary watched in silent horror as she reached the door to the house, and stopped. Trapped by the same shield Tamlin had used on  _ him _ when Feyre had been gone.

Lucien felt his face pale.  _ Not her. He could do that to me, he could—not her. Not Feyre. Not— _

She looked as horrified as Lucien felt.  _ Why—what was so awful about her request that Tamlin would punish her so brutally? He had seen Feyre’s cell. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t survive the imprisonment as Lucien had been able to, not with her past.  _ Feyre slammed against the barrier. Just as Lucien had done.

“Don’t bother trying,” Lucien tried softly.  _ It won’t work. You’ll bloody your fist and break each one of your bones and it still won’t work. _ Lucien vaguely felt Tamlin winnow away. “He shielded the entire house around you. Others can go in and out, but you can’t. Not until he lifts the shield.”

She hit the shield. Again and again. Lucien watched in growing horror. Watched the terror grow on her face as she realized what Tamlin had done.  _ It's—it's not that bad. You get used to it. It’s— _

No words felt right. Nothing would help. Feyre wasn’t like him. She couldn’t survive the things he could. She couldn’t excuse the things he could.

“Just—be patient, Feyre.”  _ It will get better. I promise. I’m sorry I promise it gets easier. You love him and I love him and it gets easier.  _ “ _ Please _ .” He didn’t know to whom he was begging, “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll try again.”  _ And again and again and again. I will try forever, Feyre. We need to work for his love, for his trust. He has so much on his plate and— _ and it still didn’t make it okay.  _ Tamlin could have the whole world on his shoulder and the way he made Feyre feel, that terror on her face—she didn’t deserve that. Tamlin was  _ **_wrong_ ** _ for making her feel that way.  _

And Lucien—Lucien could beg on his knees all day and night, and Tamlin wouldn’t listen. Tamlin would ignore him, tell him to mind his place, to offer his opinion only when asked.

Lucien watched Feyre stagger back—watched as she cracked and splintered in front of him. He couldn’t leave her, not like this. Not when the panic was so visceral in the air,  _ radiating  _ from her.

_ I should go in, I should help her. No one helped me. No one was there for me and I can be there for her. _

He had only taken one step closer to the house before the grounds erupted in darkness. It was  _ loud _ and  _ viscous _ as it shredded the magic in the air, the wards and the shields and the cauldron-damned  _ glamours. _

Lucien watched as the sentries collapsed around them, swords, which the sentries had drawn, falling in the grass beside their owners. And then, an unfamiliar voice from inside the house. And no, it wasn’t unfamiliar, Lucien just hadn’t heard it in many centuries.

Morrigan, Queen of the Court of Nightmares.

“Did you think his shield would keep us from you? Rhys shattered it with half a thought.” Silence, a  _ sob,  _ panicked. “You’re free. You’re  _ free. _ ”

When Mor emerged from the house, holding a thrashing Feyre in her arms, Lucien could do nothing but stare.  _ Mor works for Rhys, and Rhys—Rhys would help her. He was getting her out, he was saving her. Saving her from— _

_ From Tamlin. _

She maintained eye contact with him as she walked out of the house, a clear challenge in her eyes.  _ I’ve spared you, don’t make me regret it. _

Lucien made no move for his sword. She looked away, satisfied, when Lucien finally said, barely louder than a whisper, “I’ll give you as much of a head-start as I can.”

Mor only nodded, and continued to walk off of the grounds, Feyre in her arms.

A moment later, Lucien winnowed to Tamlin, plastering a bored smile on his face. He clapped a hand on the high lord’s shoulder.

“The western coast awaits!”

Tamlin offered a grim smile in return. “Yes, it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your guy's comments have literally been the sweetest thing, and I don't think you guys realize how much they mean to me. Thank you guys from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> Also how do you guys feel about me just taking dialogue from the cannon and just putting it in the same scene from another perspective. Bc i usually hate when fic writers do that but I really didn't know how to avoid it with scenes like this for instance. Hmmm idk lmk in the comments.
> 
> On an unrelated note, I did finish ACOMAF a couple days ago, and damnnnn yall.
> 
> Spoilers:  
> I don't know if I'm going to implement Elain being Lucien's mate in this story. It just doesn't really fit the personal growth I've been working towards so far, and I feel like in cannon it really depleats his ability to grow as a character and makes all of his character growth dependent on a weird soulmate au thing SJM has going on. Idk let me know your guy's thoughts in the comments but I'm considering multiple options.


	5. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peep the updated tags before you read this chapter.

The next few days passed in a blur. Lucien remembered it all in snippets of aching sorrow. Running back to the house, finding the melted wedding ring between the floorboards and pocketing it before Tamlin arrived. Sending the servants away to avoid the carnage which was sure to come. Tamlin’s roars of sorrow as he realized what had happened. The parlor, Tamlin’s bedroom, Feyre’s bedroom, all destroyed. Lucien felt it all wash over him and wondered if he was drowning—if he was already dead.

And when Tamlin had run out of material objects to destroy, he turned to Lucien, shoving him against a wall and ripping into his neck. Without Feyre, who was surely not coming home this time, there was only Lucien for his high lord to claim. And Lucien accepted the role with dull eyes.

The next day, the sentries on duty were rounded up. They were stripped bare and whipped by Tamlin. It was one of his duties, as second in command to the high lord, for Lucien to attend. But his neck throbbed with pain, and the image of Tamlin, bringing down his whip over and over again—Lucien was drawn back to a night he would have rather not remembered. So, he went inside and poured himself a goblet of wine. And one more, for good measure.

He was pouring himself a third when Alis came running into the dining room, eyes frantic.

“He’s going to kill them.”

Lucien shot up from his seat and left the room before Alis could say another word.

He found the high lord in the front yard, whip in hand.

“Tamlin.” No ‘Tam’ now, no ‘high lord’. Not after what Alis had said.

Tamlin was spattered with blood. His claws were out, as they had been since the messenger had arrived in the woods, and his eyes gleamed with a lethal rage.

“Go inside, Lucien,” was all the high lord said.

“You can’t—you can’t kill them, Tamlin.” Sentries, who’s only sin was falling victim to The Morrigan. Sentries, who had already been dying for this court for fifty years. “Don’t do this.”

Tamlin answered with a snarl which shook the rocks below them, “They have failed this court, they  _ allowed _ her to be taken from me.”

“They are victims to the Morrigan as much as Feyre is.” A half-truth, but a necessary one.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion,” was Tamlin’s only answer, growling under his breath.

“Tamlin—”

“Go inside, Lucien.”

Lucien did no such thing. He approached Tamlin in three long strides, ignoring the warning glare his high lord offered at the movement. To his left, sentries—some bound and shirtless, blood streaming down their backs, some armed and silent—watched the encounter. Alis watched too, from the front door of the estate. When he was barely a foot away from the high lord, Lucien fell silently to his knees.

“High lord. I am  _ begging  _ you, don’t do this.”

“Go inside—”

“Take me instead!”

The words shot out of him before he knew their meaning, their implication. And when what he had said washed over both Lucien and Tamlin, the emissary felt only a sick relief.  _ The sentries didn’t deserve this _ . It had, after all, been  _ Lucien  _ who had truly betrayed his high lord. The sentries had done nothing but fall unconscious, while Lucien… Lucien had actively kept Tamlin from the estate for as long as he could. He had let Mor and Feyre escape as he had stood and  _ watched _ . And now his men would be punished—be  _ killed _ for it. His men, who had  _ families _ and loved ones and  _ each other _ . And what did Lucien have? Tamlin, who’s anger and possessiveness eclipsed his love. Feyre, who was gone. And fading memories of Jesminda. Lucien would be a better choice to face execution, logically and illogically.

The emissary’s neck throbbed as he considered the deadly silence around them.

When Tamlin spoke, his voice was quiet. But behind his words was all the power of a high lord. New life and renewal, thorns and sunlight, thawing ice and growing, sweltering heat. A cool breeze which turned sharp and bitter.

“Inside. Now.”

No amount of power—short of becoming a high lord himself—would allow Lucien to defy the spring court high lord’s order. He rose and stepped back without his mind willing it. He stepped back again, and turned, back to the estate. Back to his room. If Alis saw the tear sliding down his face when she moved to allow him inside, she said nothing.

* * *

Tamlin did not find him that night, did not see him curl up in his bed like a little boy, the youngest of seven sons, the failed lover and awful friend. Alis found him in the morning, knocking softly on his door before letting herself in.

“The high lord has requested your presence in the front yard.”

Lucien only nodded, already dressed.

Tamlin killed each sentry with a swipe of his talons against their necks, standing behind them as he did, the embodiment of death. Lucien flinched as every sentry fell. He knew all their names, had shared drinks with them all, had fought and hunted and laughed and danced with each one. When Tamlin was done, and after Ianthe had offered their corpses forgiveness and absolution, Lucien and the remaining sentries took the bodies to a clearing and buried them in silence. For Lucien’s attempted sacrifice the day before, the remaining sentries offered Lucien a place beside them as they drank for the rest of the day. Lucien declined and returned to the estate. Tamlin and Ianthe were in the study bickering amongst themselves when he returned, and the emissary did not seek them out. His boots felt heavy as he walked up each stair, and turned right. He only made it one step before he paused.

After only a moment, he turned around, and walked to the other end of the hall. Tamlin had already forbidden the entrance of anyone but himself into Feyre’s room, but Lucien couldn’t muster up enough energy to care as he opened the door tentatively. It was a mess of destroyed furniture, claw marks, and snaking green vines. It was so thoroughly destroyed by Tamlin and it reeked of the high lord’s sorrow.  _ But… but… _ it wasn’t Tamlin’s. Even like this, destroyed as it was, the room was Feyre’s.

He wandered around the room for a minute or so, not daring to touch or move anything as he did. It still smelled faintly of her. Her scent had long soured, Lucien realized, and that sour, bitter taste was so pungent here, filling the back of his nose. When he had finished circling the room, he leaned against one of the walls and slid down, slowly. He stared at nothing as thoughts and emotions cascaded around him.  _ The sentries, Feyre, Rhys, Mor. Tamlin’s rage and his love, the throbbing in Lucien’s neck, the twenty lashes under the mountain. _ Before the thoughts could swallow him whole, Lucien saw something in the corner of Feyre’s room, reflecting the sunlight streaming in. He was crawling across the room then, almost mindlessly, reaching under a broken cabinet. He grasped the object with significant strain, and pulled it out to the light.

It was a small portrait, no bigger than his hand. Two women were painted by Feyre’s delicate hands. Nesta and Elain. Lucien hadn’t met either of Feyre’s sisters, but the portrait told him enough about their personalities. Nesta, if he remembered correctly, would be the frowning one on the left, slightly taller and sharper in the eyes and jaw than the one on the right. Elain was much softer, her eyes kind and warm, and there was an openness in her face which Lucien found himself envying. He shifted softly to lean against the wall, broken glass crunching under his boots. Feyre’s human sisters.

Lucien stared at the little portrait for longer than he was willing to admit. Staring at them, coming up with stories for their lives was a much better pastime than considering the shortened lives of his sentries, considering Feyre or Rhys, under the mountain, Jesminda, or any number of the terrors in Lucien’s life—in the lives of the ones he loved.

Eventually, Tamlin would find him here. He would scream and roar and attack. Lucien left the room before he could, leaving the small portrait in a drawer. 

* * *

Tamlin’s rage ebbed slightly with the death of his sentries. His rage was still a palpable, viscous thing, but he focused it acutely on war efforts instead of mindless violence. It would be tricky for the high lord to get Feyre back. They couldn’t declare outright war, not with the way Rhysand had collected Feyre. But there were surely other ways. Ways Lucien prayed to the cauldron Tamlin wouldn’t stoop to.

When Lucien slept, it was restless and in short intervals. And when he woke and saw himself in the mirror? The emissary was only getting worse. The anger and hate in his eyes, flesh and metal, has long shifted into a hopeless acceptance for the world that surrounded him.

* * *

Feyre had been gone for a week when Lucien dreamed of starlight. A black sky which extended in every direction, constellations from angles he had never seen, a soft breeze laced with mist.

_ Rhys. _

“Mor told me what you did,” Lucien heard from the darkness, and whipped around to see the high lord. He was wearing his usual black shirt and pants, hands in his pockets as he examined the stars. “Thank you, Lucien.”

Lucien couldn’t think of anything to say, and the question tumbled from him, half formed.

“Did I make the right decision?”  _ Is she better? Is she happier? _

“I think you made the right choice, but I’m a bit biased.” Rhys grinned to himself more than he did to Lucien. And then he answered the questions Lucien hadn’t asked aloud. “It will take time, as all things do.”

“You sound like a priestess.”

Rhys didn’t smile, and Lucien’s grimace faded in the silence.

“I can send for Mor to pick you up, too,” Rhys paused, “I won’t even make her carry you bridal style.” Neither of them laughed.

Lucien paused. He let himself imagine, just for a moment, what that would be like. Not being carried by Mor, though the image was almost funny, but being somewhere  _ else. _ Out of the spring court, out of the autumn court. A new start, a new  _ home _ , even.

“No.”

Rhys didn’t look surprised.

“Why.” Barely a question. The high lord’s hands were still in his pockets.

Lucien settled on something easy. Something that wouldn’t break him in two.

“I’ve spent enough time underground.”

Rhys scoffed, “It’s not all—”

Lucien felt something crack inside of him, and he cut Rhys off before he could finish.

“I’m all he has, Rhys. If he loses me too—”  _ Alis and her boys, the rest of the sentries, the cooks, the garden staff, the village five miles away. No where would be safe from Tamlin’s wrath. _ “I can’t—”

“He’s already lost you,” Rhys’ eyes were laced with fury. Lucien tried not to flinch. In an instant, a false calm slid onto Rhys’ face. “You are not responsible for the lives in Tamlin’s court.”  _ Hypocrite _ . Lucien didn’t know how he knew, but something about where they were, something about the tentative connection between Lucien and Rhys, Lucien  _ knew _ Rhys was talking out of his ass.

“I can handle Tamlin.”

“No, you can’t—”

Lucien felt himself splinter further. “Do you care this much about all the people you’ve fucked? Or do you just pity  _ me _ ?” It was a low blow. Lucien didn't regret it for a second.

“I don’t  _ pity _ you, Lucien.”  _ Liar _ . Rhys sighed, “I am trying to  _ help _ you. As a friend—”

“You’re trying to manipulate me,”  _ Of course. How had I missed it? I—I need to tell Tamlin, I need to tell him everything. He— _

__ “ _ He _ is the one manipulating you. He has been doing so for  _ centuries _ .” Rhys’ voice was casual, but his eyes gleamed darkly.

“Tamlin has only ever sacrificed for me. Everything he does is a sacrifice for his people—”

Rhys laughed bitterly, eyes unbelieving as he looked Lucien up and down.

“ _ Listen _ to yourself,” Rhys hissed, before pausing. In a fraction of a second, any frustration, any  _ rage  _ melted away into acceptance, for a moment, and then soft kindness. It was unbefitting, _unnerving_. “War is coming. When you are ready, there is a home for you in the night court.”

Before Lucien could even scoff, he was blinking heavily, and sunlight was streaming through his bedroom window. Birds chirped outside, the fragrant scent of roses entered his nose, and Lucien was once again alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm reading ACOWAR rn and ya'll... I love the version of Lucien that i've created for this fic so much that I forget that like... the cannon version exists and so I'm interpreting the cannon story with the lens of this story and its causing issues. 
> 
> ALSO. I'm thinking... and don't make fun of me... Lucien and Azriel?   
> Hear me out. So I can't pair Rhys and Lucien, because I find Rhys/Feyre too perfect (maybe they'll have a 3some or smth idk), but I also can't pair Lucien and Elain, because that's stupid (though I do have plans for them, just very sweet platonic plans and not romantic plans). And I could just keep Lucien alone but that's BORING. Also Lucien/Azriel would both be very bad at expressing emotions BUT I think I could make it work? Feel free to call me stupid in the comments.
> 
> Speaking of comments, your comments on the last chapter made me so emotional. Like I don't think you guys realize the impact you have when you comment on someone's work (unless you, too, post work, then you totally get what I'm talking about). Point is, I love and appreciate all of you. Thank you for your comments, and know that I will be waiting on the edge of my seat to see what you guys have to say about this chapter.


	6. The Night Court

Time, which had been moving so slowly in the spring court, sped up exponentially after Lucien’s encounter with Rhys. The emissary had little time to mope or mourn, to consider the consequences of his actions or the offer Rhys had made. Tamlin sent Lucien to the day court in search for an end to the bargain between Rhys and Feyre, and Lucien spent days at a time under their roof, scouring through old tomes with day court scribes, eyes skimming the pages as he pretended to search for a way to bring Feyre home.

His loyalty grew taut between Tamlin—his high lord, lover, and friend of many centuries—and Feyre—his friend and the savior of his people, whose well being depended on her remaining in the night court,  _ away  _ from Tamlin. Rhys was… a dick, but Feyre had always looked healthier after staying with him. And after what Tamlin had done… Lucien loathed the day one of them would accidentally stumble upon a way to bring Feyre home.

In an effort to keep Feyre away, keep her  _ safe, _ Lucien barely skimmed the day court tomes he was given. He hired scribes he thought would do the same, and pretended to act frustrated and shocked when they found no solution to Tamlin’s problem. His spies, various lesser and high fae scattered throughout Prythian, were quietly encouraged by Lucien to focus their energy on more reasonable things. The country was still rebuilding after Amarantha’s rule, and information on trade routes, rebuilding efforts, and shifting power struggles would help the spring court in the coming years. The spies were happy to comply.

When Hybern’s letter arrived, any sense of new normalcy—as tense as it was—flew away in the spring breeze.

_ Honorable Lord of Spring, _

_ I hear you have a problem keeping your property within your borders. I may be able to help. _

_ Hybern _

Tamlin drafted a response within an hour, and it took three days for Lucien to convince him not to send it.  _ We held Amarantha back for five decades. We can’t just abandon that effort now _ . Ianthe was no help, and Lucien’s urge to throw her in a pit full of naga only grew.

* * *

When he had a moment of free time, a small miracle in itself, he would wander the estate. He never dared approach Feyre’s room again, or that portrait in her drawer. And he never admitted to himself what he was looking for on his walks to the lower levels of the house. Alis found him anyway, knowing, as she always did, with a wry smile and sharp eyes.

“Lucien!” She would pretend to act surprised. “I was just making tea. Would you like to come in?”

As one of Tamlin’s most trusted servants these past fifty years, Alis was offered private quarters near the kitchens. Two rooms. One, a living space, small and homey. Books and paper scrawled with simple art littered the floor, and a small wood stove with a kettle of warm water atop it. On the floor of the living space were two dryad boys, playing quietly with colored beads on a string and stuffed dolls. There was a door to another room to Lucien’s left, where he knew they all slept.

When Lucien entered, the boys whipped their heads up, eyes wide and curious.

Dryads aged slower than most lesser fae, but lived longer in return. Alis’ boys were over fifty, born before Amarantha’s curse, but they looked and acted no older than a ten year-old high fae. They stared blatantly at Lucien’s eye as he entered, and it whirred softly in return. The emissary closed the door behind him, and felt Alis relax slightly in response.

Things had been…  _ tense _ , recently.

Alis was quick to pour Lucien a cup of tea and gesture for him to sit at the small table near the stove, and Lucien nodded appreciatively. They said nothing as they drank, watching the boys as they played quietly. If they got too loud, or started to bicker, Alis would butt in, snapping at them to quiet down. Lucien didn’t miss the worry in the dryad’s eyes, the way her gaze shifted to the door every time the boys squealed.

“He would never hurt them.” Lucien eventually said, barely a murmur over his mug of tea.

Alis looked sharply at Lucien, the fierce gaze of a mother shining in her eyes. But, she took a breath, and Lucien watched as her shoulders relaxed a fraction.

Over her own mug of tea, she murmured in return, “None of us know what will set the high lord off next. Do  _ not  _ tell me how to raise my boys.”

Lucien wanted to object. There were lines even Tamlin wouldn’t cross. A bloody whip—bloody  _ talons _ —flashed across his memory, and he kept silent, conceding to the servant.

“Thank you,” Lucien said before leaving. He didn’t know if Alis knew what she was being thanked for, didn’t know if she knew how much he  _ needed _ to just… be in the company of someone other than Tamlin or Ianthe or a heartbroken sentry. She just nodded as Lucien left, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Tamlin got worse as the weeks tick by.

Lucien drowned most of it out—the screaming, the roaring, the claws against wood and the thorned magic in the air.

_ Feyre is safe. _ He repeated the phrase like a mantra until the words lost all meaning.

Alis found him in the dining room sometimes, drinking wine until his head ached, until his thoughts were little more than vague emotions which buzzed in his bones.

“I’m not replacing that pitcher of wine,” she would say wryly, an eyebrow raised. He would just look at her, searching for… he didn’t know what, before snapping his fingers, his magic refilling the pitcher for him.

Any urge to fight against Tamlin’s outbursts was long gone. Feyre, he prayed, was safe.  _ Happy _ . If the price for that was Lucien’s misery, the emissary could learn to live with that. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before.

He never returned to Feyre’s room, or south of the wall. He avoided anywhere that wasn’t where his high lord had ordered he go.  _ The day court, patrol, Tamlin’s study, the dining room, his own room. The day court again, patrol, his own room, the dining room.  _ The days blurred into weeks.

One day he blinked and, as if a fog had lifted, Lucien felt aware in a way which felt cold and bright. They were in Tamlin’s study. Tamlin was speaking sharply, Ianthe smiling softly behind him. Lucien strained to listen, disoriented and aware in a way which had eluded him as of late.

“Your spies have provided  _ nothing _ on Feyre’s whereabouts. They have given us no clues on how we can get her out of Rhys’ bargain, and no intel as to if she is even  _ alive _ .” Lucien suppressed a flinch. He hadn’t considered that. He had assumed—stupidly, maybe, that Prythian’s savior was alive and healthy in the night court. If she was dead… if… Lucien swallowed before he could finish his thought. Tamlin continued. “I am tired of waiting. You are going to  _ find her _ .”

The night court, Tamlin was sending Lucien to the _ night court _ . He was  _ fucked _ . 

But Tamlin had that look in his eyes. That look he had had weeks ago when he slit the throat of his sentries. That look he had had when Lucien had begged him to allow Feyre to train, to develop her powers.  _ Steel conviction _ . Nothing Lucien could say would sway the high lord, no pleas or rational arguments. Behind Tamlin, Ianthe pouted slightly. At least he would be away from her when he was killed up north.

Lucien surveyed Ianthe, Tamlin, the claw marks on the wooden desk before him.

“I’ll be ready to leave by morning.”

“You will have your pick of the sentries to support you. Bring her home, Lucien.”

Lucien nodded, and left the study.

Tamlin didn’t find him that night. Lucien realized he couldn’t remember the last time Tamlin had looked happy. The last time any of them had looked happy.

* * *

The next morning Lucien and four of his sentries, armed with food and supplies and weapons, headed towards the caves. There was no direct route to the night court, and it was decided they would travel to the day court and cross the border by land. The day court, while hesitant, agreed to allow the five soldiers to enter their lands on the condition that they promised to keep their plans to themselves, offering the court plausible deniability in case the mighty Rhysand came with questions. Lucien was all too happy to agree. 

The night court was fucking cold. A mountain range in early spring, and far north on top of that. If they had done this in winter, Lucien had no doubt he and all his sentries would have frozen to death. Additionally, Feyre was almost impossible to find. There weren’t even  _ whispers  _ of her in any communities within the vast territory.

Lucien and his sentries dared not enter the Hewn City, but something made Lucien doubt she was kept there anyway. Something about what Rhys had said… the cold kept him from thinking about it for too long.

_ She could be dead. Your friend. What if you damned her to death in these fucking mountains? At the hands of Rhys? Manipulator, liar, monster Rhys? She was mad at Tamlin, rightfully so, but—but she loved Tamlin. Once. She loved him and he loved her. He loves us. If you work for it, you can bring that love back. _

When Lucien looked at his life, looked at the pain which tore him in two, the instability in his court and the rage of his high lord,  _ Feyre _ was the answer. If she would just come  _ home— _ Lucien dared to imagine it. On cold nights in the night court, camped in the mountains, the emissary dared to imagine life if Feyre returned home.

Tamlin and Feyre would fight, of course. That was how they loved each other, through bickering and (very loud) sex. Feyre, Lucien hoped, would stand up for herself against Tamlin, and would forbid him from ever locking her back up in that house. And they would fight about that, too. But… but… Tamlin would tentatively agree. It would take time, but things would go back to normal. No, they would make a _new normal_. A normal without masks or Amarantha, a normal which valued healing and love. It may have been the dream of a child, but Lucien felt it grow inside of him, until he could practically _feel_ it on his fingertips. Tamlin and Feyre would get married in a few years. They would have kids, and Lucien would become _Uncle_ Lucien. No more dead sentries. _Peace_. A dream so close, so _dependent_ on Feyre’s return _home_.

They continued travelling. Lucien barely tracked how time passed as they followed leads north, and north again. When they were so far north that the mountains were more jagged and frozen than Lucien had known they  _ could be _ , the emissary knew to avoid the nearby Illyrian war camps completely. If Lucien had learned anything from his years, it was to avoid fucking Illyrians. Every encounter Lucien had had with one made his own weaponry skills feel like he was a toddler flailing a stick around. If she was  _ here…  _ cauldron save them all.

A tip from a lesser fae led them north east, and it was then that  _ Bron _ , of all people, caught onto Feyre’s  _ scent _ . From there, the search was a barely contained frenzy. They followed the scent for two days straight.

And then she was there, in the freezing mountains, a bow in her grip.

_ Feyre _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that i've finished writing this i get to write the scene I've been wanting to write this whole TIME. So I'm excited for that.
> 
> Also yes, this is another sad chapter. Most of them are sad. BUT I threw in a little happiness with Alis because I was getting too depressed writing sad scenes lmao. So I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it. I'm really excited to explore Alis and Lucien's friendship more.
> 
> As always, I love all of your comments, and cant wait to see what you guys feel about this chapter!


	7. Stepping Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's here! The chapter I've been wanting to write since I first listened to this scene.  
> Its short, but pivotal to the plot.  
> Enjoy!

“We’ve been hunting you for over two months,” Lucien looked at the icy mountains, the cloudy skies. She was less than five feet from a cliff.

“How did you find me?” Her voice was… hard. Cold.  _ Feyre. What happened to you? _

“Someone tipped us off you’d been out here, but it was luck that we caught your scent on the wind, and—” Lucien stepped towards her.  _ Feyre. Let’s go home. _ He watched as Feyre took a step back. Four feet from the cliff.

“We need to get out of here. Tamlin’s been—he hasn’t been himself. I’ll take you right to—”

“No.” The word echoed like an omen in the forest. Lucien stopped. She didn’t look like she had when he had last seen her. Her frail figure had filled out into something stronger and full of color. 

She wore fighting leathers, the same that the Illyrians wore. The bow in her grip—she held it with more confidence. Tamlin’s voice rang in Lucien’s head.  _ Bring her home _ . He held out a hand.

“Feyre. Let’s go home.”

“That stopped being my home the day you let him lock me up inside of it.”

“It was a mistake. We all made mistakes. He’s sorry—more sorry than you realize. So am I.”  _ Tamlin made mistakes. I made mistakes. If you give us a chance, we can do better.  _ “ _ Feyre _ .”

She looked spooked, assessing the sentries and Lucien.

“Put the arrow down.” Lucien tried. He faintly registered the sentries circling.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”  _ Three feet from the cliff. _

“You don’t understand the mess we’re in, Feyre. We—I need you home. Now.”

She looked to the stream below. _One foot from the cliff. No._ _If she gets away—_ Images of Tamlin’s claws, his _teeth_. Of Ianthe and dead sentries. _You can fix it all, Feyre_. _Just come home_. Lucien lunged.

Feyre was gone before he could blink. Lucien whirled. Feyre was standing behind Bron and Hart, who flinched back. Beside her stood Rhys.

He was wearing a dark tunic and pants, utterly unaffected by the cold. Lucien froze.

When Feyre lived in the Spring Court, she has once explained to Lucien what learning about Amarantha had felt like. ‘Stepping back from a painting, and seeing the whole image for the first time,’ she had said.

He understood the sentiment when she had explained it to him. But now… facts clicked into place faster than Lucien could comprehend. Rhys’ fascination— _ foolish _ fascination with Feyre under the mountain. The bargain, the  _ wedding _ . The way he stood beside her now, like he was debating killing everyone surrounding them with half a thought. He stepped back from the painting, and Lucien saw the whole image for the first time.

He had a series of decisions to make very quickly.

“Little Lucien,” Rhys purred. “Didn’t the Lady of the Autumn Court ever tell you that when a woman says no, she means it?”

They used to call Lucien a fox. It was not a meaningless title.

The roles fell into place easily. Lucien stormed forward. “Prick. You filthy, whoring prick.” Feyre growled. _Good._ He whipped to her, “What have you done, Feyre?” 

“Don’t come looking for me again.”

_ I won't have a choice. _

“He’ll never stop looking for you; never stop waiting for you to come home.” Lucien watched her face twist from her own mask of calculated disinterest.  _ I’m sorry. _ Lucien pressed on. If there was  _ any _ doubt in her mind, if she sympathized with Lucien at all… “What did he do to you? Did he take your mind and—”

“Enough,” Rhys said, “Feyre and I are busy. Go back to your lands before I send your heads as a reminder to my old friend about what happens when Spring Court flunkies set foot in my territory.”  _ Flunkies. Good one, Rhys. _

Lucien’s head felt clear in a way it hadn’t in years. This was what he needed to do. Feyre needed Lucien to be one of the monsters in her story. Feyre, so healthy with her  _ mate _ , could  _ never _ return to the Spring Court.

Lucien pressed on.

“You made your point, Feyre—now come home.”  _ The Spring Court is not your home. It never has to be your home again. _

“I’m not a child playing games.”  _ No, you’re not. _

“Careful, Lucien,” Rhysand drawled. “Or Feyre darling will send you back in pieces, too.”

_ I don’t doubt it. _

“We are not your enemies, Feyre. Things got bad, Ianthe got out of hand,”  _ Remember Ianthe. Do not forgive her. _ “But it doesn’t mean you give up—”

“You gave up,” she breathed. “You gave up on me. You were my friend. And you picked him—picked obeying him, even when you saw what his orders and his rules did to me. Even when you saw me wasting away day by day.” Lucien struggled to keep the mask on. Her words hit like daggers. He molded his guilt, crushing and unending, into daggers of his own.

“You have no idea how volatile those first few months were. We needed to present a unified, obedient front, and I was supposed to be the example to which all others in our court were held.”  _ Not an excuse. Don’t take it as an excuse. I didn’t stand up for you, Feyre. Rhys—Rhys stands up for you. _

“You saw what was happening to me. But you were too afraid of him to truly do anything about it. I begged you, I  _ begged  _ you so many times to help me, to get me out of the house, even for an hour. And you left me alone, or shoved me into a room with Ianthe, or told me to stick it out.”

Lucien almost sobbed from relief, guilt a viscous and oily thing in his veins.  _ Not done. You’re not done. _

“And I suppose the Night Court is so much better?”  _ Anywhere is better than Rosehall. _

“When you spend so long trapped in darkness, Lucien, you find that the darkness begins to stare back.”

From the darkness that curled around Feyre and Rhys, Illyrian  _ wings _ emerged from Feyre’s back.  _ Cauldron boil me. _

Lucien took a step back, the surprise on his face genuine. “What did you do to yourself?”

“The human girl you knew died Under the Mountain. I have no interest in spending immortality as a High Lord’s pet.”

“Feyre—”

“Tell Tamlin if he sends anyone else into these lands, I will hunt each and every one of you down. And I will demonstrate exactly what the darkness taught me.”

In his centuries, Lucien had never felt such an odd combination of pride and fear. Lucien nodded faintly to Bron and Hart, who winnowed away with the other sentries.

He looked to Rhys, then. Pride shone as clear as moonlight on his face.  _ Proud of his mate. _

_ One last hint, Rhys. I hope you’ve been paying attention. _

“You’re dead. You and your entire cursed court.”

_ A warning, Rhys. Not a threat. _

A lump was growing in his throat as Lucien looked upon Feyre and Rhys. They were, he realized, the only living souls in Prythian who had cared about him unconditionally. Feyre, his friend, whom he had betrayed and abandoned time and time again. And Rhys, his court’s enemy, who had offered him a new life because he  _ saw _ the pain Lucien was facing at the hands of Tamlin. The pain Lucien  _ still  _ faced.

_ Let your hate for me be my mating gift to you both. Thank you. _

He offered his silent goodbyes, hidden by the mask of the autumn fox, and winnowed away.

_ If you’re smart, you will never have to see me again. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We finally get Lucien actively trying to be a good guy!
> 
> I almost cried writing this one, ngl. The next chapter is Calanmai, so that's also gonna suck to write. I blame SJM for giving Lucien such a tragic story and managing to make him so annoying in ACOWAR. Peep me over here casually rewriting his entire redemption arc.
> 
> Anyways please comment if you liked this chapter! I love your feedback.


	8. Calanmai

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a careful look at the tags before reading this chapter. This chapter takes place during Calanmai, which, if you remember, didn't go very well for Lucien in ACOMAF/ACOWAR.  
> TW at the end notes.

It took them  _ so long  _ to return to the spring court. Lucien could not winnow far, only a few miles at a time, but the sentries, they were even worse. They were waiting for him two miles south, Bron and Hart shaking slightly at their former proximity to the high lord of night.

Lucien’s new mask was one of a leader as he said only, “let’s go home.”

They winnowed south and south again. South until their magic was drained so completely that they had barely finished making camp before they passed out in poorly built tents. The next morning, some of their magic back, they winnowed again. It took three days to reach the border of the night and day court, and the sentries’ magic was so thoroughly drained that it took another full day to reach the day court’s caves. They were all covered in layers of mud and sweat by the time they stumbled out of the magically-adjoining spring court cave.

No one was waiting for them. There were no sentires  _ left _ to guard the caves after Tamlin’s execution, and that wasn’t even considering the four sentries which had accompanied Lucien across Prythian.

Lucien turned to the sentires, a soreness in his neck flaring from the movement.

“Go clean up. I’ll report to the high lord.”  _ He’ll kill you if you’re there when I tell him. I at least stand a chance. _

Something which had flared so brightly while he was in the night court dimmed as Lucien approached Rosehall. He had, for just a moment, had a purpose while in the Illyrian mountains. _Keep Feyre away._ _Warn Rhys_. But now, as he neared his high lord, there was no purpose. Just the looming task of _survival._ A task which had been facing him for centuries, he realized. He had not been thriving, he had _never_ thrived; he had only ever survived. In the autumn court when he was young, Lucien had survived the torment of his brothers and father. In the spring court, he had survived the loss of Jesminda and his eye. Under the mountain, they had _all_ been surviving. And now, too, he would face Tamlin’s wrath, and choose to survive again.

Lucien tracked mud into the house as he walked straight to Tamlin’s study.

“Tam,” He said, pushing the door open. The high lord was—thankfully—alone, Ianthe nowhere to be seen. Tamlin’s nostrils flared as he looked over Lucien, reading his defeated and exhausted expression.

“Where is she.” Barely a question.

Lucien told him everything he had seen, barring a few details. There was no point in lying about what had happened, not when the sentries he had brought would easily betray him.  _ She was in the Illyrian mountains. Rhys was there. Feyre grew wings and then threatened to kill us if we returned. We left. _ He said nothing about the mating bond that was so clear in Lucien’s eyes, or how  _ good  _ she had looked, how  _ healthy and strong _ . No, that would only make things worse. He definitely didn’t tell Tamlin about how he had pushed Feyre away as far as he could, pushed her so she would have no reason to ever return to this wretched place.

Tamlin’s claws had dug into the wood the moment Lucien had said ‘Illyrian mountains’. A sorrowful rage engulfed his high lord, and Lucien watched mildly as vines erupted from the study’s walls and wrapped around the furniture.

Tamlin took a deep breath when Lucien was done, and calmly,  _ too calmly _ , opened a locked drawer in his desk. He pulled out a familiar letter.

“I thought you burned it,” Lucien said, eyes narrowing.

Tamlin ignored him. From his desk, he pulled out a wax stick next, lighting the wick with a snap of his fingers.

“Tamlin,” Lucien tried, faint warning in his voice.

“I’m sending it.” So  _ final _ . It had taken Lucien three days to convince Tamlin not to send that very letter to Hybern when he had first written it. Something in Tamlin’s voice as he spoke told Lucien that he could beg Tamlin on his hands and knees for  _ years _ and he still would not listen. So Lucien just sighed and leaned back in his chair.

_ Ruin _ .  _ That is what you bring to our home, Tamlin. With Hybern only comes ruin. _

Lucien had stood to leave when he heard a knock on the door, and saw a pale white hand on the opening door a moment later. He suppressed a groan.

“Ianthe,” he offered with a nod, still moving to leave.

She pressed a delicate hand on his chest, stopping him, but turned to Tamlin as she spoke, “High lord, we have urgent matters to discuss.” Lucien moved to leave again, picking her delicate hand off of his armored chest. She stopped him again. Lucien suppressed another groan.

Ianthe pointedly did  _ not  _ sit in the seat Lucien had been sitting in, muddy and stained from Lucien’s journey. Lucien just leaned against the door, silent.

“What is it, Ianthe?”

Her smile was ditsy and empty as she turned to the high lord. Lucien supposed it looked ethereal to most.

“Calanmai approaches.” An unfamiliar dread pooled in Lucien’s stomach. “Are you prepared, high lord?”

Tamlin growled, all traces of that uncanny calm lost in the sound.

_ "No _ . Not without Feyre.”

This wasn’t going to go well.

“But! My lord,” Ianthe crooned, a soft hand reaching out to Tamlin’s own clawed one. “It is sacred.” Her eyes were wide and doe-like.

_ "No _ .” The low growl which emanated from Tamlin shook the house.

“Well, the rights  _ must  _ be performed. If not by you, then by another male of… significance.” Her eyes danced to Lucien.

“I’m busy that night,” Lucien deadpanned. He usually got shitfaced on Calanmai and woke up in the grass somewhere.

“Lucien,” Ianthe chided. “If not Tamlin and not you, who would it be? The rights must be performed to guarantee the continued success of our court. The magic must flow  _ freely _ .”

_ Our court? The spring court, which you abandoned for the entirety of Amarantha’s reign? _ Muted rage flashed in him.  _ Hypocritical holy wretch. _

Lucien sighed. Like Tamlin and his letter to Hybern, Ianthe would not budge on this.

“Fine,” Lucien relented. “I’ll find a fair maiden and fuck her in a cave. Happy?”

“Lucien,” Tamlin said in warning.

Lucien didn’t react. Ianthe’s smile was broad and viscous.

“I look forward to seeing which fair maiden you choose.”

It was as much of a dismissal as Lucien needed, turning and leaving the room swiftly to take a bath.

* * *

There was no room for revelry or wine for the emissary on Calanmai a week later. Lucien was watched closely by servants and sentries as he undressed to only loose trousers that night. He was not as bestial as Tamlin, could not call on any primal need as he stalked through the crowds. However, even if he was not a high lord, the revelers recognized the vitality of his work tonight, recognized his  _ importance  _ as they parted, allowing him to move throughout the crowd freely. Unlike previous years, no men or women approached him with wine or pretty words. They merely watched as he headed to the caves; The women he was to pick from would be there. Lucien felt no tug towards any specific woman as he entered the cave mouth. He felt nothing other than the usual pulsing of drums and power of Calanmai. The woman lined the walls, but they did not look at Lucien as he prowled further. Lucien didn’t look at them in return.

_ Pick a woman, fuck her, return to the estate and get drunk. _

But the women still did not look at Lucien.  _ Was this normal? _ Lucien wasn’t typically in the cave when Tamlin was, and didn't know the procedure. No one had bothered to tell him. He walked deeper into the cave, and deeper still. A glowing woman of porcelain skin faced him at the end of the cave. She was naked, skin painted with traditional religious symbols. Her arms were outstretched and her face looked up, illuminated by a single ray of moonlight from an ancient hole carved out of the cave. She looked down and met Lucien’s gaze.

_ Ianthe _ .

The order was clear enough.  _ I will be your fair maiden. _ He could leave, he could turn around and leave. Or perhaps he could refuse, find another woman from the plenty which surrounded him. But they were standing and walking out of the cave, heads cast down to the stone they walked upon. He turned to follow them, panic rising in his chest, when her hand landed gently on his cheek, soft and cold.

“Lucien,” she said sweetly, “It is time. The mother wills it.”

Nothing. There was  _ nothing  _ Lucien could do. If he refused, there was no telling what the effect on the spring court’s, nay,  _ Prythain’s  _ magical reserves would be. 

She must have seen the panic in his eyes, for her other hand rose to his other cheek, cupping his face in her hands and turning his head towards hers.

“Lucien,” she said again, and it was almost a moan on her lips. Her hands were delicate and soft as they trailed down his cheek and neck, his arms and his waist, resting on his hips. She pushed his loose pants down, watching as they fell to his ankles, and pulled him to a pile of furs behind her.

_ Close your eyes. It will be over soon enough. For the Spring Court. For Prythian. _

It was over an hour before Ianthe deemed the ceremony complete, waving Lucien away to ‘ _ enjoy the rest of Calanmai _ ’. Hands grazed over him as he walked through the crowds: naked, as he was. Some fae were sprawled out on the grass with their partners, others against trees or on top of tables. He ignored them all as he stalked back to Rosehall. There was no purpose in his step, no destination other than  _ away _ .

Alis was waiting for him outside of his bedroom door. She looked to the floor as she approached, holding out a blanket. Lucien wrapped it around his waist.

“There’s a hot bath already ready for you,” she said quietly. He nodded, ignoring the growing lump in his throat. And then she was gone.

The water was scalding. Lucien’s skin turned red when he stepped into it, the blanket Alis had provided abandoned on the floor beside him. Slowly, he submerged himself completely, head sinking into the scalding water. The drums outside became nothing more than a slight vibration. The sounds of Calanmai fell away. He had only a moment of silence,  _ mother blessed silence, _ before the bile rose in his gut and he emerged from the water with a gasp, looking for something, anything—Alis had left a bucket.

Lucien emptied his guts until he was dry heaving, the scent of vomit heavy in the small bathing room. He was boneless by the time he was done, and barely had the energy to clean  _ her _ off of himself, scrubbing until he was raw.

He swished mint infused water in his mouth, spitting it out in his small sink and repeating the action until the taste of his own bile was gone from his tongue.

Hair soaking wet, he found a heavy sweater and pants in his dresser, and shrugged them on before falling into bed.

He couldn’t sleep. Even as exhausted as he was, sleep refused to come, taunting him at the edge of his reach. He barely registered what he was doing as he rose from the bed and left his room, still barefoot.

Feyre’s room had not changed in those weeks since Lucien’s last visit. Broken furniture and glass shards strewn about the room, thorny vines climbing up the walls and ceiling. He approached the overturned dresser in half a haze, rummaging through a familiar drawer until he found what he was looking for: a small portrait of two human women, Nesta and Elain Archeron.

He allowed his mind to wander from the cave—from  _ Calanmai _ —to  _ them _ . So human, with such simple lives. As he sunk to the floor, staring at the portrait, he thought of them until his eyelids fell and sleep took hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Extremely Dubious Consent. Ianthe tricks Lucien into having sex with her, abusing her religious position. Does not get explicit.
> 
> I put off writing this chapter for a few days, and then wrote it in a single sitting last night. The next few chapters should go faster, and then slower, and then fast again, lmao. Pacing? Who is she?
> 
> Please consider leaving your thoughts in the comments! I love hearing from you all.


	9. Meeting Portraits

Lucien woke up with a start, kicking and scrambling. There was a blanket draped over him, he realized, and he kicked it off of himself in a frenzy.

It took many long moments for Lucien to calm, for his breath to no longer feel jagged and far away. When the world had returned, spinning and dull but  _ there _ , he leaned back against the wall, groaning.

He ached  _ everywhere _ . He didn’t allow himself to think about which aches and pains came from which of his activities the night before: Calanmai and sleeping on the floor. The portrait of the Archeron sisters was still in his hand, undamaged and staring back at him. Nesta’s eyes cool and heartless, Elain’s eyes sweet and kind.

Slowly, feeling some bond between him and the portrait fray and snap apart, he placed the small painting back in the drawer. The blanket, discarded on the floor, he picked up, shaking it out and watching as chunks of glass fell to the wooden floor with sharp bright sounds. He folded the woven fabric as he left the room. The hallway was empty, though daylight shone from the nearby windows. He returned to his own room slowly, each step a labored effort. He had things to  _ do _ . He was to receive word from a spy in the winter court today, and with Tamlin’s letter to Hybern a week ago… Lucien watched as the worries slid around him, piercing no desire within him for action. More worries emerged somewhere in the distance, and Lucien watched them fade too as he crawled into bed and allowed sleep to engulf him once again.  _ Later. _

When he awoke the second time it was slower. Rather than a violent start, returning to the land of the living felt labored and slow, like swimming through molasses. When he was awake, it was not as it had been in the Illyrian mountains a week ago. In Rosehall, he was aware of his own heartbeat, his eyes were open, and that was about it.

Tamlin was waiting for him in the study with a letter from Hybern. There were circles under his eyes, and Lucien swore he saw guilt in the high lord.

But Tamlin said nothing as he handed the letter to Lucien to read. Lucien still felt half asleep as he read the king’s old scrawl.

“Okay,” Lucien said eventually, setting the letter down.

“Okay?” The high lord parroted, confusion and doubt written across his face.

“Okay.”

It was a foolish decision to ally with Hybern, but it wasn’t Lucien’s foolish decision to make. It was Tamlin’s. And as the muddy suffocating molasses sludge coated and corrupted him, Lucien couldn’t care less about the foolish decisions Tamlin made.

The high lord only nodded, shooting Lucien a look which meant ‘Moving on. What are your plans for today?’ The emissary indulged him, telling Tamlin about the spy he would meet with, and how he would be going on patrol tonight.

“I’ll see you at dinner?” Tamlin asked when Lucien was done. His voice, his  _ tone _ , was almost tentative.

There was a knock on the study door before Lucien could respond, and he felt in a moment like he was dunked in ice water. The suffocating molasses fell away and he was in a cave, all too aware of every movement, of her smooth hands and—and it was Alis at the door, not Ianthe. There was a tray in her hand. Lunch.

The days and weeks passed much the same after that. Tamlin, hyper focused on Hybern and Feyre’s return. Alis, providing silent support with cups of tea soft looks. Lucien, all but wandering around as he sludged through the motions of life in the spring court.

Ianthe did not show herself at first, apparently praying in her temple. But the first time he saw her after Calanmai, invited to breakfast at Rosehall by Tamlin, everything came rushing back, freezing cold and nauseating. He said nothing during breakfast. If he moved, he would have vomited. But she gave Lucien nothing more than a pious smile and soft prayer, frowning slightly when she saw how blanched he looked. He didn’t eat that day.

The second time he saw her, he felt nothing. She may have smiled at him or offered quiet prayers. Lucien didn’t notice.

_ Lucien _ .

Patrols were dull. The sentries didn’t talk to him. If they did, Lucien didn’t respond.

_ Lucien _ .

He thought of Feyre sometimes. He allowed himself to hope that she and her mate got a happy ending. That whatever was happening with Hybern would fail and Feyre, at least, would be  _ safe _ —

“Lucien.”

Ice water.

He was in Feyre’s room, sitting on the floor. In his right hand, the Archeron sisters. In his left, blood, and a piece of broken glass.

“Alis.”

There was an expression on her face Lucien couldn’t read. It quickly morphed into something he  _ could  _ read—pity.

“The high lord sent me to find you. He wants to know if you’re dressed.”

“Dressed?” His limbs felt so heavy, but he was gasping for air in a way he hadn’t in  _ weeks. _

“For Hybern,” Alis supplied softly.

“When?” He was bleeding and everything was so  _ colorful  _ in here.  _ Too  _ colorful.

“Less than an hour.”

As he got dressed, he could feel himself pull back into a wave of nothing, into a wave of molasses and mud. As he rested a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder, the high lord winnowing them away, the panic fully shifted into a comforting nothing.

Twenty minutes later he was again ripped from the comforting drone of nothing as  _ Feyre was there _ . Rhys, too, and his court, in  _ Hybern _ . And Tamlin—rage and unwavering decisiveness—had  _ done  _ it. While Lucien had been wallowing and lost in himself, Tamlin had found a way to secure Feyre’s place in the spring court. She would be coming back to Rosehall, and it was too late for Lucien to stop it. The wave of guilt was immediate and crushing, and it was a struggle for Lucien to school his features.

There was a male, an Illyrian on the floor, held by Rhys and another, unfamiliar face. Rhys’ face was one of rage, but it was not directed towards Lucien. No, no one at all was looking at Lucien. They were all staring with mixed expressions at Tamlin beside him.

Tamlin, who was taking a step forward—towards Feyre, who was so terrified beside her mate.

“No,” she breathed into the cold, stale air.

Lucien put a hand on Tamlin’s shoulder in warning.  _ You will die. Perhaps you deserve it after this, but you will die if you take another step. _

“No.” Feyre spoke loudly.

“What was the cost?” Rhys said to the high lord of spring, looking so broken in the darkness of Hybern’s castle.  _ What was the cost? _ Lucien didn’t know. He hadn’t been paying  _ attention _ . Whatever Tamlin had offered had been steep and ruinous. Lucien simply hadn’t thought it would have worked.

_ Stupid. _

Lucien watched as Tamlin’s gaze shifted from Feyre to Hybern, eyes cold.

“You have my word,” Tamlin said.

Feyre took a step, shielding her mate and her court.

“What have you done?” she asked Tamlin, disbelieving.

It was the king of Hybern who responded, not Tamlin.

“We made a bargain. I give you over and he agrees to let my forces enter Prythian through his territory, and then use it as a base as we remove that  _ ridiculous  _ wall.”

Lucien felt Feyre’s gaze on him, pleading and betrayed. He practically shattered at the force of it, shattered at the mask he wore, a familiar cold fox. He knew if he looked at her it would be over, so he shifted his gaze from the king of Hybern to Tamlin, avoiding the savior of Prythian altogether.

“You’re insane,” said one of Rhys’ court. An Illyrian with longer hair, the uninjured one.

Tamlin’s words were as cold as his face as he said “Feyre,” holding out a hand for her to take.  _ Back to Rosehall. Another cage. _

She did not move, stone faced.

“You are a very difficult female to get a hold of.” Hybern said, vaguely amused. “Of course, we’ve also agreed that you’ll work for me once you’ve been returned home to your husband or—is it husband to  _ be  _ or husband? I can’t remember.”  _ Is that what you bartered, Tamlin? Feyre’s power? _

The mask was slipping. This was going to end poorly.  _ We need to leave _ . Rhys, across the room, was barely containing his rage at how his mate was being treated. Rhys’ court looked ready to die here—for Rhys  _ or Feyre _ . 

“Tamlin…” Lucien tried.  _ You—we are going to die here. _

Tamlin didn’t respond to Lucien, gaze still fixed on Feyre. “I’m taking you home.”

She only backed up a step.

Lucien couldn’t think, he couldn’t allow himself to feel the rage which threatened to consume him. A familiar roar of blood in his skull overtook him, and he remained silent as the room continued to argue. He schooled his face, he watched for exits, he looked over the night court, Hybern, and a human man  in the corner. Vaguely, he processed more words, more threats. The faint scent of a mating bond, an argument, and Tamlin—he was gone before Lucien could stop him, lunging for Feyre. But Feyre was not there. The crunch of bone, Tamlin’s  _ nose _ as Rhys had punched him in the face. On instinct, Lucien put a hand on his sword. Tamlin, stalking towards Lucien—the high lord of spring stopped dead.

“I don’t believe it,” Hybern laughed, “Your bride left you only to find her  _ mate _ . The mother has a warped sense of humor it seems. Tell me girl, how did you unravel that spell?” Lucien didn’t know what spell he was talking about, but the rage on Tamlin’s face was a dangerous one. A rage which meant thorny vines, cracked walls and bite marks on Lucien’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre offered, genuine.

“You,” Tamlin snarled, “What did you do to her?” And then soldiers were entering, heavy with armor and weapons.

Lucien examined them all, searching for weaknesses in their ranks, for any chance of escape, of  _ life _ . There was arguing, Feyre and Hybern and others, maybe, as he looked over the soldiers.

A tub, no, a  _ cauldron _ , was before them then, and if Lucien hadn’t felt lost and in over his head before…

Feyre’s voice was vicious.

“If you bring me from here, if you take me from my mate, I will destroy you. I will destroy your court and everything you hold dear.” Lucien had never believed anyone like he believed her in that moment.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” was Tamlin’s only response, and Lucien couldn’t suppress the cringe at his high lord’s stupidity, at his  _ foolishness _ .

There were women then, unfamiliar and regal, walking through the same door Lucien and Tamlin had walked through. Behind them, guards. And behind  _ them—  _

Lucien recognized them immediately. The bitter and cruel face of one, the soft and terrified features of another. 

Nesta and Elain Archeron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhhhh, so its been a while. I actually moved into my college dorms in the past weeks, and have been so busy that writing has really been on the backburner lately. But I missed you all, and have been working to post this so I could talk to you all and get your reactions again! Plus, I missed Lucien. The next chapter will be up hopefully soon! Latin homework is a bitch, so my free time grows shorter and shorter with each day.


	10. Hybern's Castle

The king was talking again. About Jurian, for some reason. The queens, perhaps. Lucien didn’t listen,  _ couldn’t _ listen as the Archeron sisters were sprawled on the floor below them, bound and gagged. The sisters whose portraits Lucien had held as a lifeline in Rosehall. There was a new emotion flickering under Lucien’s skin, then. Rage. Rage as he looked at two humans, two innocent young women who had been dragged to this awful place, who deserved innocent, easy,  _ human  _ lives. They were not a part of this, they did not have to be a part of this like the high fae and the Prythian courts were.

_ Would they die here too, like the rest of us will? _

More arguments, more posturing and petty 

“Show us. Demonstrate it can be done—that it is safe.” One of the humans, a wrinkled woman, asked.

“Why do you think I asked my dear friend Ianthe to see who Feyre Archeron would appreciate having with her for eternity?”

_ Ianthe. _ Lucien was pulled back into a roar of blood and swirling emotions.  _ Ianthe had betrayed them, she had sold information to Hybern. She— _

Lucien was going to vomit. By the looks on Tamlin and Feyre’s face, he wasn’t the only one.

He spoke before he could stop himself. “She sold out—she sold out Feyre’s family to  _ you _ .” Lucien couldn’t pinpoint the emotions which stormed within him. The months of  _ her,  _ another one of Hybern’s tricks.  _ Had Hybern planned Calanmai, too? Or was that Ianthe’s own doing? Had _ —Hybern answered Lucien, but the emissary didn’t hear the response.

“Don’t you—”

“I would suggest bracing yourself,” Hybern grinned.

There was only blinding hot power and screaming, then. Chaos, Tamlin, the night court. Mor, Hybern, guards.

The poisoned one screamed, a sick and viscous sound.

“Please refrain from getting any stupid ideas, Rhysand. If any of you interfere, the shadowsinger dies. Pity about the brute’s wings.”  _ Shadowsinger _ ,  _ that’s  _ what the poisoned one was. And the other ‘brute,’ the Illyrian whose blood was pooling around Lucien’s boots. “Ladies,” Hybern continued. “Eternity awaits. Prove to their majesties that the cauldron is safe for strong willed individuals.”

Elain, the soft one, sobbed harder, while Nesta, the sharper one, began thrashing, teeth bared. It was Tamlin who spoke next. “Stop,” he said, and was ignored by all.

Lucien tried, then, looking at the two women, so unlike their regal portrait and yet so similar.

“Stop this.” His hand was on his sword with a centuries old instinctual movement. Rage, towards Tamlin, towards Hybern, towards  _ himself _ , kept him from collapsing.

Tamlin spat. “This is not part of our deal. Stop this, now.”

Hybern only shrugged. “I don’t care.”

Tamlin lunged, a force of rage and instict and beastial fury, only to be leashed by the same white hot power Hybern had just used on the Night Court. Power which wrapped around the high lord’s wrists and neck, power Lucien dared not test. If he went for  _ Hybern _ , he would be leashed, too. But if he went straight to the cauldron, if he tried to stop this insanity  _ directly _ . 

He staggered a step forward, feigning clumsiness as he tried to reach Elain. But she was too far, kicking,  _ weeping _ .

“That is enough!” Lucien surged, begging the mother to grant him speed, to allow one of his stupid plans to just  _ work _ and to  _ get her out _ . 

If the mother granted Lucien speed, it was an inconsequential gift, for Hybern still leashed him, white hot power cutting into his neck and wrists as he fell to the cold floor with a thud.

_ It's over. This is over and—  _

“Please,” Feyre begged, “I will do anything, I will give you  _ anything _ .”

Pain shot through Lucien’s neck and skull and  _ soul _ , so sharp and bitter that Feyre’s begging was little more than a faint buzzing which was soon overtaken by Elain’s screams, Nesta’s roar.

_ Silence _ .  _ And then screaming once again. Nesta, maybe, or Feyre. _

Lucien could not see through the pain in his skull. But he felt cold, all of the sudden.  _ Water, _ he realized faintly.  _ Water from the cauldron. _

Lucien strained for sight, strained to see the Archeron sister, to beg the mother that she, at least, had survived this nightmare. She rose slowly onto her elbows, and was glowing. It was the only thing Lucien could focus on, a beacon in Hybern’s cold dark. She was shivering, maybe, as Lucien’s cleared, slowly. He heard the guards snicker before he realized what they were snickering at.

_ Vile pigs. _ He would kill them all. To take an innocent woman, to corrupt her with the cauldron as they had, and leave her sprawled on the stone, exposed and changed…

“Don’t just leave her on the damn floor.” 

It was amusement, maybe, in Hybern’s eyes as he released Lucien from his leash. Lucien ignored the king, stalking over to Elain, a  _ stranger _ , and removing his coat. She cringed at his movement, and Lucien ignored that too, draping the fabric over her.

In the background, he heard as Nesta struggled, screaming and roaring. But he held Elain’s gaze, begged her silently not to look, not to watch. There were tears and snot streaming down her face, and her hair and clothes were soaked.  _ Look at me. Don’t look over there. _

Nesta’s roaring stopped. Lucien smelled vomit, heard as someone heaved onto the floor.

When the cauldron was tipped again, the awful water threatening to soak them both again, Lucien hoisted Elain up, holding her frail form against himself. It was in that position that Nesta Archeron, newly made fae, found them as she stalked towards her sister and the stranger that was Lucien. She roared, pushing Lucien away.

“Get off her.” Lucien sprawled on his back and Elain was wrenched from him. “Elain, Elain, Elain,” Nesta sobbed.

Lucien did not interject, not on something as intimate and fearful as the scene before him. He merely pushed himself into a sitting position with the heels of his hands. Through his gaze, slightly unfocused, it was not Elain’s eyes he met, but the shadowsinger’s. Mor had moved her attention from him to the other Illyrian, and Rhys had split his attention between the shadowsinger and the scene before them. But the shadowsinger Illyrian, whose name Lucien still did not know, was looking vaguely towards Lucien. He met Lucien’s eyes and clung onto the eye contact with crazed attention. There was only pain in the Illyrian’s hazel eyes.

Lucien was reminded, for half a moment, of how Jesminda had looked when she was dying—when his brothers and father had been  _ killing _ her in front of him. The way this Illyrian’s eyes glazed in pain, the stoic acceptance on his face as he accepted death. Lucien looked away.

Then, barely a moment later, there was a blinding light emanating from  _ Feyre _ .

She looked to Tamlin when it faded, gasping and blinking. 

“Tamlin?” she breathed, blinking still, “Tamlin?” she looked to her hands, and then to her court. A moment later, she was scrambling away from her mate, towards  _ Tamlin. _

“Where—what did you do to me? What did you do?” Feyre asked, staggering back, away from Rhys, staggering towards the high lord of spring.

It took a moment for Lucien to catch on. But a fox recognizes a fox.

Slowly, cutting through the silence, Rhys spoke.

“How did you get free?”

“What?” Jurian seethed. Feyre just turned towards Tamlin. “Don’t let him take me again. Don’t let him—don’t—” she sobbed.

Tamlin’s eyes were soft. Softer than Lucien had seen them in a long time as he said only “Feyre.”

Feyre sobbed harder. “Don’t let him take me. I don’t want to go back.”

Mor spoke then, and Lucien remembered the way she had held Feyre at Rosehall.

“What did you do to that girl?”

Rhys only cocked his head, covered in blood. “How did you do it, Feyre?”

Feyre turned to the king. “Break the bond.”

The room shifted. The light in Rhys’ eyes, the game he was playing feeling too real all too suddenly.

“Break the bond. The bargain, the mating bond the—he—he made me do it, he made me swear it.”

Rhys cracked, eyes too wide. “No.”

“Do it. I know you can. Just—free me—free me from it.” She didn’t look at her mate as she spoke.

“ _ No _ .”

“No more. No more death, no more killing. No more. Take me home and let them go. Tell them it's part of the bargain and let them go, but no more. Please,” she looked to the Illyrian with the shredding wings. She looked to everyone but Rhys. “No more. Take me home.”

Tamlin’s voice was flat as he addressed the king. “Let them go. Break her bond, and let’s be done with it. Her sisters come with us. You’ve already crossed too many lines.”

Hybern looked amused. Had he caught on, too? “Very well.”

“No,” Rhys pleaded for the third time.

“I don’t give a shit if she’s your mate. I don’t give a shit if you think you’re entitled to her, she is mine. One day, I am going to repay every bit of pain she felt, every bit of suffering and despair. One day, perhaps when she decides she wants to end you, I’ll be happy to oblige her.” Tamlin clearly hadn’t caught on, then.

Feyre looked at Rhys then, her pleading look hidden by the misguided fear.

“Don’t,” was all Rhys asked—begged—of Feyre.

“Do it.” Tamlin said.

“No.” Rhys begged for a final time, before they both began screaming, falling to the stone floor. Tamlin ripped the glove from Feyre’s hand brutally, revealing untattooed skin. Feyre, sobbing, let him.

Rhys crawled to the two Illyrians, pain and sorrow so clear on his bloody face.

“You’re free to go, Rhysand. Your friend’s poison is gone. The wings on the other, I’m afraid, are a bit of a mess.”

The shadowsinger did indeed look a fraction better. His eyes were no longer lost and looking upon the mother, but sharp and brutal as they looked to Feyre. The other Illyrian though… Lucien didn’t know if he would survive.

Then in a flash, movement. Mor winnowed to Lucien and the Archeron sisters, grabbing Nesta and Elain by the arm and winnowing away. Rhys was close behind, grabbing the Illyrians and winnowing them away.

Lucien turned to Tamlin as Hybern raged at his guards, at the human male which Lucien was starting to think was Jurian,  _ somehow _ . He said nothing, but the look he gave Tamlin—the look he allowed to slip past the carefully curated fox mask—there was hate in his eyes, unfettered, ruinous hate.

When Lucien turned his gaze to Feyre, the lack of fear in her eyes was conformation enough that she has been lying about all the Rhysand drama.  _ But why is she here? Surely, there was another way out—a way which didn’t involve going back to Tamlin? _

As they winnowed away, the emissary’s hand gripping Tamlin’s shoulder firmly, Lucien realized with a start that no one had died. They had  _ all _ survived. Some, forever changed or mutilated, some, Feyre and Lucien among them, headed to the thorny prison of Rosehall. But all alive. It was an exhausting thought, and one that nearly made him sick with… not relief. But something.

“I thought I’d never see it again.” Feyre said through her tears, gaze disant.

“I thought you would never, either.” Tamlin responded.

Feyre was silent for a moment, gaze contemplative and vaguely relived.

“It feels… feels as if some of it was a dream, or a nightmare. But I remembered you. And when I saw you there today, I started clawing at it, fighting—because I knew it might be my only chance—” 

“How did you break free from his control?” Lucien interjected flatly, ignoring the warning growl Tamlin offered in return. If  _ this  _ was the extent of her acting abilities—playing the idiot damsel after outsmarting Amarantha months ago, then Lucien would not be the only one to catch on to her little game. Whatever her plot, if she ever planned on leaving the spring court, she would need to get better at this, and fast. Tamlin was easy—he’d believe anything outrageous thing Feyre could come up with. But other members of the spring court? Servants, sentries, Ianthe? They would be harder to convince. Lucien prayed to the mother that Feyre heeded the warning he had veiled through suspicion.  _ Do better. Stop acting like a complete fool. _

“I wanted it. I don’t know how. I just wanted to break free of him, and so I did.”

Lucien only stepped back, letting Feyre and Tamlin speak as the high lord of spring led Feyre into Rosehall. She looked back once, a sleepy grin on her face, and Lucien did not mask his features as he returned her gaze.

_ Good luck, Feyre Cursebreaker. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As much as I love the beginning of ACOWAR (it was there I fell in love with Feyre as a character), I have no desire to rewrite the whole thing from Lucien's perspective, so we're probably gonna skip through most of that and get to the juicy bits.  
> Also, in case it wasn't clear: Lucien and Elain are NOT mates in this AU.


	11. Feyre the Mastermind (And pain in Lucien's Ass)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feyre's such a bad bitch in this part of the book. This is definitely when I fell in love with her.  
> SET TWO MONTHS after last chapter, in the opening scene of ACOWAF.

Even months later, Feyre was no better a liar. Her smiles, placid and happy, looked forced to a critical eye. The smile—the expressions were mechanical, similar to how Lucien’s eye whirred and clicked. It was one of those fake smiles which met Lucien and Tamlin in one of Rosehall’s large rooms.

Feyre, before her painting of the rose garden, pretending like she hadn’t known they were coming. Lucien wondered if she was getting easier to read because he was learning what to look for, or if she had merely become complacent in Tamlin’s idiocy.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Tamlin said, “But I thought you might want to get ready for the meeting.”  _ Yes, the meeting she had insisted on attending. _ Her next mask was one of nerves. Lucien saw through it as easy as he had seen through the others.

“Is—you talked it over with Ianthe? She’s truly coming?”

Lucien responded with ease, looking for any hints of Feyre’s true motivation in her painting. He found none; Pretty, boring flowers. “Yes. She… had her reasons.”  _ None that you will listen to. None that you should listen to. “ _ She is willing to explain them to you.”

“I’ll go change.”

“The painting looks beautiful,” Tamlin said to Feyre, his eyes bearing into her like blades. Lucien, on the contrary, perhaps, thought it was rather plain. Saying so, however, would likely cost him his other eye.

“It’s nowhere near done. It’s still a mess.”

“I think we all are,” Tamlin responded. 

_ Some more than others. _

Lucien waited for Feyre to finish changing. He could hear her steps on the other side of the door, sure and decisive: an odd thing to pinpoint. She needed another warning. This facade was easy with Tamlin, but Ianthe was smarter than any of them had expected. Feyre wouldn’t last five minutes in the meeting if she continued to treat her little  _ vacation _ to the spring court like a game.

“I’m surprised you’re so calm, given your promises in Hybern,” Lucien offered as she emerged.  _ You promised to kill Ianthe. Do you really think she’s forgotten? Do you really think she believes you are the lamb you parade yourself as before Tamlin? _

“You yourself said Ianthe had her reasons. Furious as I might be, I can hear her out.”

“She’s going to spin a story that you’ll want to hear,” Lucien warned.

“I can decide for myself. Thought it sounds like you’ve already chosen not to believe her.”

“She dragged two innocent women into this.” As much of a confirmation as he would give her.

“She was working to ensure Hybern’s alliance held strong.”

“You’re smarter than that.”  _ Ianthe will know you are smarter than that. _

Feyre watched Lucien for a long moment. Her gaze was sharp and assessing. In a moment, it shifted into something softer, something more docile.

“We’ll be late,” she finally said, and walked ahead.

* * *

After the meeting and before Jurian’s arrival that afternoon, Lucien walked to a familiar pair of rooms on the ground level of Rosehall nestled behind the kitchens.

The heavy iron door handle felt heavy and familiar under his hand, and he pushed the door open with a slow movement.

“Lucien!” squealed Arion, bouncing on the balls of his feet. In his hands were a familiar set of small wooden toys. Lucien had carved them last month.

Lucien’s smile was fond as he reached down and wiped away oatmeal from the corner of the boy’s mouth. “Good morning, Ari. Where’s Oti?”

Arion’s smile shifted into a slight pout. “He’s playing in the  _ gardens _ . Alis said I couldn’t join them until I finished my food. I was  _ just _ headed out.” The boy’s gaze shifted to the hallway behind Lucien. “Wanna come with me?”

Lucien’s soft smile turned tense, but he smoothed his features before Arion noticed.

“Sure.”

As promised, Oti and Alis were waiting for them in the gardens. Oti was chasing a high fae boy, one of the sentry’s sons, and Alis was watching them fondly from a stone bench. The boys played quietly in the gardens, careful not to stomp on anything precious. They did not squeal or laugh as boys should, but they seemed to be having fun either way.

“Alis,” Lucien greeted the woman formally with a curt nod. When she met his gaze, her loose and carefree expression fell into something harder.

“Oti, Victor, lets go inside for cake.” Oti and Victor paused their playing, seemingly delighted at the prospect of cake. Ari, hand still dangling from Lucien’s own, looked conflicted, wrestling between his love for playing and his love for sweets. After a few moments, the prospect of sweets with his brother Oti and friend Victor won out, and he was grinning as he ran with the other boys back to Alis’ apartment.

Alis said nothing outside of casual pleasantries as they walked, assuming her usual air or wry charm until the door of her home closed behind her. In an instant, her face took on a sharper, more hallowed appearance. Still, she smiled softly as she served the boys small slices of cake.

“If you make a mess, you’re not getting another slice for a month.” The three boys nodded fervently. 

Lucien and Alis took seats on the other side of the living space, piping mugs of tea cradled in their hands.

“You said we had the rest of the day,” she grimaced from behind her mug, quiet enough so the boys wouldn’t hear.

“I was wrong. They’ll be here by noon.”

Alis kicked Lucien in the shin, her gaze not shifting from the three boys.

_ “Noon?” _ she hissed.

Lucien grimaced. “They told me this morning. I was so busy dealing with Tamlin, and then Feyre—”

“Cauldron boil me, Lucien.”

“I  _ know _ .”

The room was filled with giggling from the boys for a moment, which died down as they continued eating their cake.

“They won’t be here very long—”

“Don’t lie to me, Lucien.”

Lucien sighed, finishing his tea.

“I need to go.”

“Clean the mug!” Alis cried as Lucien rose from his seat.

Lucien let out a soft chuckle, and nodded, walking to the small sink and cleaning the mug.

“Come on,” Lucien jerked his chin to the door, looking at Victor. “Let’s get you back to your mother.”

Victor groaned, but rose, taking Lucien’s extended hand. They walked hand and hand to the rose gardens, where his mother was pruning quietly. Her gaze turned accusative to her son when she saw them approach.

“What did you do?” she asked Victor, a deadpan in her voice which reminded Lucien of Alis’ own accusative tone.

“He didn’t do anything,” Lucien soothed, pushing the boy from where he was now hiding from his mother behind Lucien’s leg. “I’m walking him back from Alis’. I think you and him should return back to the village for the rest of the afternoon. Come back tomorrow.” His tone was casual.

Victor’s mother—Willa, Lucien thought her name was—frowned, but nodded, setting her shears in a woven basket at her feet.

“Whatever you say, my lord,” she smiled oddly and began gathering her things, Victor included.

“Enjoy the sun, Willa.” Lucien smiled, waving her off as she left, back to the main village.

“You as well, my lord.”

* * *

The next day, after Jurian’s arrival, they were travelling south, to the first hole in the wall. Jurian and his high fae pets, the twins, took whatever measurements they needed, while Lucien followed Feyre deeper into the woods, eventually sitting against a nearby tree.

“Whatever you’re planning, it’ll land us knee-deep in shit.” It was technically a truth. It would land everyone but  _ her _ knee-deep in shit.

“I’m not planning anything,” she smiled mildly, playing with a flower. Her gaze shifted to Lucien’s own, then to his metal eye, which clicked softly. “What do you even see with that thing?”

_ Nothing I would tell you about.  _ Luien said nothing.

“Don’t trust me? After all we’ve been through?” 

_ Not as far as I can throw you, Feyre Cursebreaker _ .

She kept talking, not seeming to be bothered by Lucien’s silence. “If you’d been alive for the war, would you have fought on their side? Or fought for the humans?”

_ This  _ he could give her.

“I would have fought for the human-Fae alliance.”

“Even if your father wasn’t?”

“Especially if my father wasn’t.”  _ Though he was.  _

“And yet here you are, ready to march with Hybern.”

He wanted to tell her, just for the satisfaction of seeing her be  _ wrong  _ about something. He wanted to tell her that no, he was not fighting for  _ Tamlin _ , but was fighting for  _ her _ , was fighting for Arion and Oti and Alis and the thousands of other spring court citizens who didn’t deserve to be thrust in the middle of whatever ruin Hybern and Tamlin and Feyre were sure to bring to these lands. But she  _ wanted  _ him to reveal something. And she could barely keep her own secrets at the moment—no need to add his own. So he wore an old, familiar mask. Tamlin’s henchman,  _ the fool _ .

“I did it for you too, you know.” He made his voice sharp and viscous, “I went with him to get you back.”

“I never realized what a powerful motivator guilt can be.”

“That day you—”  _ left—no, can't say that. _ “—went away, I beat Tamlin back to the manor—received the message when we were out on the border and raced here. But the only trace of you was that ring, melted between the stones of the parlor. I got rid of it a moment before Tam arrived home to see it.”

He watched her mull the carefully crafted information.

He could never tell her the truth of that day—that truth belonged to Lucien and Mor alone. And, perhaps, whoever Mor had told.

“They melted it off my finger,” she lied. Lucien didn’t press.

“Thank you. For coming to Hybern to get me.” Lucien kept the scoff threatening to bubble up from slipping through the mask.  _ The fool, Tamlin’s fool. _

“It was a trap. What I thought we were to do there… it did not turn out that way.”  _ I didn’t know what we were doing there, so lost in my own mind, so utterly destroyed by Ianthe and Tamlin and you. _

“This situation is terrible.”

Lucien allowed the snort, this time.

“Don’t let Jurian bait you. He’s doing it to feel out any weaknesses between us.”

“I know.”

Silence, for a moment.

“Why?” Feyre asked. “Why does Hybern want to do this beyond some horrible desire for conquest? What drives him—his people? Hatred? Arrogance?”

Lucien looked at Feyre, looked at the desperation in her eyes.

“Do you—” he didn’t get to finish the sentence as Brannagh and Dagdan shoved through the bushed, apparently done with whatever they had been doing at the hole in the wall. Jurian followed them.

“Careful, Lucien. You see what happens to males who touch the high Lord’s belongings.” Lucien snarled, because that was what he was supposed to do. 

* * *

Feyre was,  _ maybe _ , smarter than Lucien had given her credit for. As the solstice sun rose, illuminating the  _ Cursebreaker  _ instead of pious Ianthe, Lucien wondered for a moment if he should be more careful around Feyre Archeron. Ianthe, at least, was scrambling, and Lucien would be lying if he said it didn’t fill him with immense joy to see the wretch falter. So, against better judgement, Lucien accepted Feyre’s outreached hand, and kneeled.

A knight before his queen.

* * *

Lucien answered his door on the second knock.

_ This is a bad idea _ , he vaguely registered as he pulled on a pair of pants which he had left crumpled on the floor.

“I heard you—what’s wrong?” She was cold with sweat, and afraid.  _ Had Tamlin—  _

The look on her face told Lucien enough of what he was supposed to do. He nodded, stepping back to allow her in.

She had never seen his room before, he realized. He wondered how it looked to someone who didn’t see it every day.

“I dreamt about it. Under the mountain. And when I wake up, I can’t remember where I am. I can’t remember  _ when _ I am.”

_ Just a dream. _ Lucien sighed, relieved he wouldn’t have to murder Tamlin this evening.

“What did you dream of tonight?”

“She had spiked me to the wall. Like Clare Beddor. And the Attor was—” she shuddered, and Lucien realized he was the only person Feyre could go to right now. Without her mate or her court, there was just Lucien, who had been hinting that he knew her secrets, who had been silently and secretly protecting her for months, and longer. He approached with purpose, faltering only as he got closer.

But she threw herself in his arms, and Lucien just leased a sigh, drawing soothing lines down her back as she sobbed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, a truth more visceral than she knew. “I’m sorry.”

She took heaving breaths, about to speak as—

“What’s going on?” Tamlin—Feyre pushed herself from Lucien, too fast and— _oh_.

“I had a nightmare. I—I didn’t want to wake the house— _ I had a nightmare, _ ” Feyre strode to Tamlin, then, pulling him from the room, leaving Lucien alone.

_ Oh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brooooo college is kicking my assssssssss.  
> But! I got this written and edited, so we're feeling good.  
> Also! I'm still planning on Az/Lucien I think, but all the Jurian/Lucien shipping on tikok... yall 👀  
> Oh and Arion (Ari) and Oti are, as yall probably realized, what I named Alis' boys. Bc like... they don't have names I was I tired of dancing around that. Uncle Lucien is gonna give them nicknames and spoil the shit out of them, you can't change my mind on this.  
> ALSO you guys like fox!Lucien, and /I/ like fox!Lucien, so we're really dipping heavy into Lucien being like... a competent character idea.
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your incredible support. Its really what keeps this story alive. Oh and sorry I only post at like 12am. It's the only time I'm free, lmao.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is def. dedicated to nosleepbutwhoneedsthat, who bookmarked this work and added the tag 'current hyperfixation'. You have no idea how HONORED I felt reading that.
> 
> Also like........ . ... . tw: tamlin being an idiot dick

Lucien heard a soft knock two hours later. The sound drew him from a state of restless half-sleep, and he was happy to ignore the prospect of the nightmares to come all together for the fae on the other side of the door.

“Alis.”

She was holding two mugs in her hand, and wore a knowing expression on her face.

Lucien accepted the mug of tea with an appreciative nod. It was floral, almost overpowering, one of the teas made with ingredients from the rose garden. He led Alis to the seats beside his unlit fireplace and sipped from the mug slowly, golden eye narrowing on the steaming liquid.

“What’s he breaking?” Lucien asked in the silence.

Alis huffed a humorless laugh.

“Nothing. He’s just pacing the halls.”

Lucien froze, and the room was suddenly all too cold.

“That’s worse.”

“No,” Alis countered, sipping from her own mug. “Him causing vines to erupt from the wood and smashing anything he sees is worse. Pacing is manageable.”

_ “You don’t know him like I do,” _ Lucien hissed into the lowlight.

“You’re right,” Alis conceded. “I don’t.” Her face flickered with the shadows cast by the candle in the corner of his room. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

“No.” Lucien took another sip of his tea. Alis said nothing. “She said she had a nightmare. Came into my room, hugged me, and—”

“And he found you two. Got it,” Alis finished.

Lucien leased a sigh. “He’s pissed.”

Alis chuckled. “Back when we were all… wearing masks… I distinctly remember him asking you to  _ join  _ him and Feyre.”

“Things were different, then. You don’t—” Lucien cut himself off before he could say something he couldn’t take back.

“Get it?” Alis finished for him. “Enlighten me.”

“He’s catching on. He knows that I don’t—I don’t  _ believe _ him anymore, Alis. His bullshit is _ just that _ .”

“Yes…” Alis prompted.

“Before… we were both just  _ prizes _ to him. Things to keep and protect and…” Lucien thought back to the weeks when Feyre was in the night court, back when Rhys still maintained a one week per month claim on the Cursebreaker.  _ To keep and protect and… claim. _ “He hasn’t fucked me in months.”

It had been almost half a year, when Feyre had spent her second week in the night court. There were no scars where Tamlin had sunk his teeth in Lucien’s neck and laid claim to the man, but Lucien still felt the phantom wounds ache at odd hours.

Alis spoke slowly, looking as if she was chewing over her words before speaking them.

“Do you… want him to fuck you?”

Lucien signed.

“No. And he knows that—he can  _ sense  _ it.” Lucien gestured at nothing. “If I were still…  _ his _ , if I still  _ begged _ for it and agreed with everything he said… I don’t think he’d have an issue with tonight.”

“But you don’t—beg for it, that is.”

“Not anymore.”

Lucien leaned back against his seat. After the events of the night, he felt boneless and hollow.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Lucien asked Alis, looking through half lidded eyes of russet and gold at the unlit fireplace before them.

“Always.”

_ I have so many secrets. Which shall I share with dear Alis? _

“Do you remember when Rhys would take Feyre?”

Alis chucked. “Yes, Lucien, I remember.”

“Just for a week at a time. Not when Mor took her.”

“Yes.”

“I’d send you all away. It was just him and me in the manor…” Lucien felt a lump grow in his throat.

“I remember.”

Lucien was silent for a long moment, eyes closed.

“He would pin me against a wall and—he’d claim me. He’d rip open my neck and shoulder and he’d fuck me while I was covered in my own blood.” Lucien’s words were a sharp rasp in the darkness. “And when he was done, he’d drag me to his bed and fuck me again. He’d—he’d reopen the wound and I—” Lucien took a shaking breath. “I’d let him, Alis. I told myself that my love for him was stronger than his hate for Rhys, and that…” Lucien trailed off.

Alis was slow to speak, crafting her words with care.

“I am going to say this once, Lucien, before the sleeping draught in your stomach fully takes hold. You have sacrificed more for this court than anyone. You have let him chip away at you for  _ centuries _ , and you have saved lives doing so, whether that was your intent or not. Your debt to this court has been paid  _ tenfold _ . You do not have to save it for a moment more.” Alis took a breath, steadying herself in the darkness. “Let me release you from that burden.”

Lucien felt a sturdy hand on his back and arm. He felt himself walk, guided by Alis, to his bed a few paced away. He felt the heavy quilt she tucked him into. He felt her hands brushing away a piece of hair from his face, and her breath on his ear as she wished him a dreamless sleep.

* * *

When Lucien woke, Tamlin was sitting at the very seat Alis had occupied hours prior. The fireplace was lit and radiated heat throughout the room.

“Tamlin,” Lucien said, voice scratchy. The sleeping draught Lucien had let Alis give him left him groggy in what was surely the early morning.

“Lucien,” Tamlin returned, not turning from his seat to meet his emissary’s gaze. “Come here.”

Slowly, Lucien rolled from bed and padded over to Tamlin. Would the high lord tear into his flesh? Fuck him in his own room? Lucien let the thoughts swirl around him in a familiar haze as he moved to stand before the high lord.

“Good morning, Tamlin.”

“Were you going to fuck her?”

Lucien sighed. “No.”

Tamlin snarled.  _ “Liar.” _

He had never donned this mask before. Lucien’s love for Tamlin had always been genuine in the past. But whatever love that had once bound them had spent the last year slowly withering and fraying. The mask was easy to craft, and easier to wear. A mask for convenience, to end this conversation without pointless  _ bickering and yelling and the breaking of furniture. _

“Tam,” he said, and his voice was still husky from sleep, “She’s not my type.”

“You’ve fucked plenty of women, Lucien, do not  _ lie  _ to me.” Tamlin’s voice was dark and dangerous.

“Tam,” Lucien repeated, and perhaps kneeling before the seated high lord was too much, but as Tamlin’s pupils dilated, it clearly wasn’t the  _ wrong _ choice. “She had a nightmare. She was scared. She hugged me.” Easy, comprehensible sentences for the foolish high lord.

Tamlin raised a hand slowly, resting it on Lucien’s cheek. Claws scraped his jaw and neck, and Tamlin’s thumb rested just below Lucien’s flesh eye. If he extended his claw, the high lord could pluck it out like a grape.

“Swear to me.”

Lucien paused, lips parting slightly.

“I swear on Jesminda’s grave.”

That, apparently, was enough for Tamlin, who lowered his hand back to his side.

The high lord rose from his seat, towering above his emissary. He reached out a hand again, resting it on Lucien’s neck and he looked up at the high lord.

“I’ve missed you, Lucien.”

“I’ve missed you too, Tam,” Lucien said, and it was the first time he had lied so completely in a while.

“Come to my room tonight.”

“Okay, Tam.”

* * *

Lucien traded Tamlin’s room for a tent in the middle of nowhere, in a bedroll beside Feyre. He slept restlessly, turning over Feyre’s actions, her words, trying to piece together her plan. When he finally slept, it was dreamless.

Lucien woke to the smell of blood. The children of the blessed, torn to ribbons by the Hybern royals. Lucien held his breath to keep from vomiting.

The Bogge was easy to find. Old, familiar work to track it down and lure it back to camp. Easier still to watch it hunt its prey, lazy with the torture of the humans. When they returned to Rosehall, Tamlin had already learned of the day’s proceedings, and was stalking wildly down the main hall.

Lucien didn’t pay attention as Feyre and Tamlin argued. No, it was much easier to fall into the familiar and muted haze of nothingness. He heard the sounds, the inflection and extreme gestures, but he allowed none of it to pierce his haze.

“Tam—” Lucien finally said, standing, “Those humans were barely more than children. Feyre gave the royals an order to stand down. They ignored it. If we let Hybern walk all over us, we stand to lose more than their alliance. The Bogge reminded them that we aren’t without our claws, too.”

Tamlin didn’t shift his gaze away from Feyre as he said to Lucien, “Get. Out.”

Lucien didn’t object as he slipped out. Not until he heard the explosion.

The study had been shredded. Furniture splintered, windows shattered. Feyre was on her knees on the other side of the room, and Tamlin stood at the epicenter, horror in his eyes.

Every one of Feyre’s actions clicked into a mural before Lucien. Her plan to destroy the spring court was already in motion. No—not only that—it was already  _ too late _ .

“What have you done?” Lucien didn’t know who he was asking. He guided Feyre from the floor, pushing the horrified high lord out of his way. “Let’s get you cleaned up.” She was bleeding, and bruises were sure to form.

“Feyre,” Tamlin whispered behind them.

Feyre stopped, still guided by Lucien’s hand. “I’m fine. I’m sorry—I’m fine.”

* * *

Lucien watched her plan unfold the following days. He watched the sentries’ growing discontent at the high lord as she paraded her wounds. He watched as the naga attack on the estate sent the manor into a buzz. He stayed with Alis and Ari and Oti that night, making sure they were okay, watching over them in case of a second attack. In the morning, he was the first to arrive at the barracks. The sentry, a high fae named Inachos who had served the spring court for over a century, now nothing more than a pawn in Feyre’s game.

Bron strung him up, apologizing softly as he did. 

The rest of the manor arrived an hour later.

Lucien watched as Tamlin bestowed his sins upon Inachos.

“Twenty lashes, and one more, for the cauldron’s forgiveness.”

_ Would now suffice, or shall we reschedule? _

_ Amarantha—under the mountain— _ Lucien fell into old memories as they continued to debate around him.

“Twenty-one lashes, high lord.”

_ Don’t hold back, Tamlin… I would hate to give Lucien twenty more lashes. Rhysand would have to do them, of course. _

The crack of the whip, a heavy sound, echoed in Lucien’s skull.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't drugged your bff because you know they need a good night's sleep and they know you're drugging them but also can kinda admit they need sleep and are too polite to refuse so drink it anyway, are you really best friends?
> 
> oof if any of you have read the work in this series called 'twenty lashes,' that is what I am referencing at the end of this chapter. if you haven't read it and are interested, it's basically just a couple 'under the mountain' scenes from Lucien's perspective, including the unwritten scene where amarantha forces Tamlin to whip Lucien 20 times, which is cannon. The gay shit i add to it however, is obv not cannon.  
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/26118364/chapters/63534208
> 
> oh also I love all of you and if college wasn't the busiest Ive ever been i'd update every day bc you all deserve it. i hope you liked this chapter!


	13. Bloody Rocks in the Clearing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably change the rating of this fic to explicit lmao.  
> I did change the tags! Please look at them before reading this chapter! Trigger Warnings at the end notes (canon spoilers).

Lucien didn’t stay to watch Feyre work. He didn’t stay to watch as she tended to Inachos’ wound’s as if it wasn’t her who had caused him to be strung up and whipped by the high lord of spring. He didn’t watch as she accepted the sentries’ praise with graceful smiles. He had other things to do.

He entered the small house with a lowered head. He allowed the woman within to scream and hit and snarl, he watched as the child sobbed. And when he was no longer welcome, he left, head even lower.

When Feyre was done offering soothing words to the sentries she praised like hounds, Lucien winnowed inside of the barracks. Inachos was lying on his stomach, back bandaged by Feyre’s unskilled hands. He was half asleep when Lucien entered, but he flinched when he saw the emissary, wincing at the pain it induced. Lucien shot him a dry look halfway between betrayal and pity.

“I brought you something,” Lucien offered softly in the silence.

Inachos made no sound other than labored breathing.

Lucien reached into a deep pocket in his overcoat, pulling out a warm package wrapped in paper and string.

“Willa was making it when I arrived.”

A pained groan left Inachos then.

“She almost let it burn when I told her what had happened.”

Lucien watched Inachos bite his pillow to keep a sound choked in his throat and sat in a small wooden stool beside the bandaged man, untying the warm package. It was a sweetbread, and cooked throughout were cherries preserved in rum. A traditional spring court holiday dessert. Willa had sliced it before offering it to Lucien with shaking hands.

“You haven’t eaten all day. You eat this, and I’ll give you your other gift.”

It must have been humiliating, Lucien thought, to be hand fed by your superior. He could see it on the furious blush of embarrassment on the sentry’s cheeks and neck. But he ignored it, feeding Inachos one bite at a time until he had finished that slice and another. The sentry was exhausted by the end of it, head lulled against a thin pillow, unable to keep staring himself any longer. He was half asleep when Lucien pulled the second item from his overcoat and placed it in Inachos’ hand, curling his fingers gently around it.

“Victor wanted me to give this to you, Inachos.”

He watched his sentry’s shaking hands feel the thing in his hand. He watched a tear roll his face as he realized what it was. One of his son’s toys.

Lucien’s voice was hard and heavy in his throat as he spoke. “Neither of them believe you lost a single  _ shred  _ of your honor today.” _ I made sure of it. _

As Inachos fell asleep, there was a faint sigh of relief in his scent. It almost made the sharp scent of pain which overpowered it bearable.

* * *

Alis found Lucien annotating spring court documents the next morning.

_ “What _ are you doing?” She asked him wryly, leaning against the door of his small office as he dipped a quill in ink.

“Someone still has to do paperwork around here,” his smile was genuine but weak as he scribbled a final note on a tithe form he should have sent off weeks ago.

“Come have a cup of tea with us.”

There was something in her voice that bugged Lucien, something that rang old-forged alarm bells in the back of his mind. He rose and followed his dearest friend without complaint.

Arion and Oti were quiet when Lucien entered. That in itself wasn’t too surprising—the spring court was no place for rambunctious children—but their faces were solemn and pouty. At the arrival of Lucien, they turned. Oti just huffed, turning back to his breakfast, poking it with a spoon. Arion burst out into tears.

Lucien leveled Alis with a quick look of ‘what did I do?’ followed up with a look of ‘what did  _ you _ do?’ Alis had the sense to look guilty, but said nothing.

“What’s wrong, Ari?” Lucien asked, kneeling beside the boys. Oti, to his right, was sniffling softly in his oatmeal.

Lucien pulled Arion from his seat with sure arms, pulling the boy into his lap as he sniffled, breathing through choked breaths.

“I—I—I…” he hiccuped, “I don’t wanna  _ leave _ you.”

“Leave me?” Lucien asked softly, rubbing circles into the boy’s back as he held him.

“Al—Alis says we  _ have _ to.” Arion sniffled hard, broken little sounds choking from him.

_ “Oh, buddy _ , it's okay. I’ll see you both again.”

Alis had talked about it once or twice—leaving the spring court. Lucien had even encouraged it in the past months, worried about what Feyre’s plotting would do to the citizens of the spring court closest to Rosehall. He hadn’t known she had managed an escape until now.

Oti’s sniffles became too loud for Lucien to pretend like he didn’t hear, and he pulled him down from his chair too, seating the boys on his knees. They burrowed into his jacket with the force of young rams, sniffling and hiccuping loudly, and Lucien didn’t let Alis see the tears falling down his own cheeks as he pulled them tighter against himself.

“It’s okay, _ it’s okay, _ ” he whispered into their hair, a promise to himself as much as to the boys.

He held them until they fell asleep from exhaustion and then carried them to their beds, tucking them in and returning to the living space. Alis was pouring herself a drink. She poured another when she saw Lucien had returned.

It was not tea.

“It’s barely lunchtime, Als.”

“I’m a terrible mother—aunt— _ whatever _ .” She poured herself another drink, ignoring Lucien.

“No, you’re not,” Lucien soothed anyway, waving off Alis’ silent offer to refill his glass.

“You’ll come visit—when the dust settles?” She tried to pour herself a third, but Lucien pulled the bottle from her fingers.

“Yeah, Alis, I’ll come visit.”

He didn’t know if he was lying or not.

“Give me my bottle back,” she grumbled, and Lucien conceded with a look. “We have two more bottles I can’t travel with. We’re finishing them tonight.”

Lucien huffed out a laugh.

“Alright, Alis.”

* * *

Lucien felt like shit the next morning. His headache was so sharp and throbbing that he barely registered that Ianthe was accompanying them on their next little trip to the wall. Tamlin was there too, as was Feyre, a few sentries, and hybern’s emissaries.

He spoke little, ignoring Tamlin, ignoring Ianthe and Feyre and Jurian and the twins. He set up camp beside the sentries, and they all knew the symptoms of a hangover well enough to leave Lucien alone.

He didn’t know he had fallen asleep until the morning sun shone in his eyes.

“Good morning, Lucien,” the emissary heard along the morning breeze. His tent flap was pulled back, revealing white robes and the blue sky beyond. Ianthe stood before him, a pious grin on her face. “Pray with me?”

The sick feeling from the day prior returned with a vengeance as the sight of her, headache throbbing mercilessly.

“I’ve already completed my prayers,” Lucien deadpanned, turning back to the pillow below him.

_ “Lucien,” _ she crooned, entering the tent. Lucien shifted back an inch, maneuvering out of the way as her hand reached for his thigh. With his adjustment, it landed softly on his calf. She began playing with his loose pants, feeling the fabric between her smooth fingers. “While we as fae may be able to lie, it is still a practice which is best left  _ out  _ of friendly conversation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Lucien growled, grabbing her soft wrist and setting it delicately on her own thigh. “I’m going to get dressed.”

The dismissal must have been clear, for Ianthe left the tent with an exasperated grin, as if she was part of a joke Lucien was telling.

She was gone when Lucien emerged from his tent, dressed for the day. Alis was gone. Arion and Oti were gone. His headache was, unfortunately, persistent as ever.

Lucien was left with no clear direction in the early morning, and he found himself in a secluded clearing for most of the day, craving silence above all else. He only realized he had fallen back asleep when he jerked awake to the feeling of hot breath on his neck. Instinctually, he reached for his knife and tried to winnow away, quickly realizing his inability to do  _ neither _ as his hands were bound and his access to his magic completely severed.

“Ianthe,” he rasped, recognizing her sickly sweet scent as it surrounded them both.

“Oh, Lucien,” she soothed, reaching out to tuck a piece of his hair behind his ear. He scrambled away, rising to his feet with unbalanced steps.

“Back off.”

Her laugh was low and sickly. “I thought you’d seek me out after the Rite,” she purred.

“I was— _ obligated _ to perform the Rite,” amusement danced in her eyes, “That night wasn’t the produce of desire, believe me.”

“We had  _ fun _ , you and I.”

“I’m with  _ Tamlin _ .”

_ “Liar,” _ she crooned.

“I’m not—”

“And what about Feyre? You don’t act loyal to the high lord around  _ her _ .”

“You’re mistaken.” His heart raced. His palms grew sweaty. Backed against a tree, headache definitely not from the drinks he had two days ago. She circled him, shoes crunching over breaking twings.

“Am I? You put your hands all over her.” Her hand slid down his chest, his shirt askew. With horror, he realized the buttons to his pants were undone.

“Do not touch me,” he said through gritted teeth.

Her hands continued to roam the panes of his chest and stomach and  _ lower _ before he heard the movement.  _ Feyre,  _ staring at them with horrified eyes as she entered the clearing. A pack on her back, Tamlin’s bandolier—she was  _ leaving. _

_ Help. _

“That’s enough,” she said, voice cold.

Ianthe whipped her head to Feyre, an innocent smile on her face.

“We were in the middle of a game. Weren’t we, Lucien?”

Lucien couldn’t speak, not as her hand remained a cool threat on his stomach.

“We’ll return to the camp when we’re done,” she said, turning back to Lucien. Her hand slid lower, a small grin on her face as she looked at Lucien.

“Take your hands off him.”

Ianthe’s face lost its sickeningly pious smirk as her hands dropped, eyes dull and vacant.

“Unshackle him.” Feyre said, and slowly, with new vacant eyes, Ianthe did. Lucien heard the shackles fall unto the moss below.

Feyre’s eyes were wild as they leveled on Ianthe. Lucien prayed for a moment that he would never be on the receiving side of that gaze. Ianthe was still so close, her sickly sweet scent overpowering.

“Pick up that rock.” Lucien watched in silent horror as Ianthe picked up a rock the size of an apple. “Put your right hand on that boulder.” she walked as if controlled by a puppet master’s strings. She  _ was _ , in a way, if this was Feyre’s doing.

“Smash your hand with the rock as hard as you can until I tell you to stop.”

Lucien listened to the thuds and cracks with muted horror. His mind, still muddy from sleep and his unnatural headache, his body violated and so unnatural in his own skin.

“You will never touch another person against their will. You will never convince yourself that they truly want your advances; that they’re playing games. You will never know another’s touch unless they initiate, unless it’s desired by both sides.”

_ Thwack; crack; thud. _

“You will not remember what happened here. You will tell the others that you fell.”

Her ring finger had shifted in the wrong direction. Blood flowed down the rock freely.

“You are allowed to see a healer to set the bones. But not to erase the scarring. And every time you look at that hand, you are going to remember that touching people against their will has consequences, and if you do it again, everything you are will cease to exist. You will live with that terror every day, and never know where it originates. Only the fear of something chasing you, hunting you, waiting for you the instant you let your guard down.”

She was crying, though she made no sound.

“You can stop now.”

The bloody rock thudded on the moss. Her hand, little more than cracked bones wrapped in bloody skin, fell to her side.

“Kneel here until someone finds you.”

She fell, silent. The blood was rather beautiful on her pale robes, Lucien thought for a moment.

“I debated slitting your throat this morning,” Feyre said with her icy voice. “I debated it all last night while you slept beside me. I’ve debated it every single day since I learned you sold out my sisters to Hybern. But I think this is a better punishment. And I hope you live a long, long life, Ianthe, and never know a moment’s peace.”

Lucien had the good sense to allow horror to seep into his bones as he fixed his clothes, looking at Ianthe, Feyre, and the bloody stone on the moss.  _ Like Rhys. You’re like Rhys. _

“The word you’re looking for, Lucien,” crooned a deceptively light female voice, “is daemati.” They whirled toward Brannagh and Dagdan as they stepped into the clearing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: attempted sexual assault, mind control?, basically torture lmao  
> It's just the: 'Ianthe is a rapist' chapter.
> 
> End Notes:  
> Also, Headcanon: Lucien comes up with nicknames for EVERYONE. Tamlin? Tam. Alis? Als. Feyre? Feyre Cursebreaker, savior of Prythain and pain in my fucking ass.
> 
> It's midterms! So who knows when I'll be able to crank out the next chapter. Hopefully soon?
> 
> I love you guys, and I hate Ianthe.  
> Please let me know what you thought about this chapter!


	14. Escaping the Spring Court

Lucien and Feyre killed them quickly, with shadow and steel and precision. It was a clean fight, considering. Lucien felt nothing as he wrenched his blade from Brannagh’s stomach. He felt a little more as he stumbled back from Dagdan’s blade, aimed at his throat. Panic was such an old emotion nowadays, that as it coursed through his veins at the bloodshed before him, it didn’t feel too odd. 

Feyre was talking. To Ianthe—probably.

“Feyre,” Lucien tried, voice a hoarse rasp from his nap, from Ianthe, from the hybern soldiers. “You’re going back. To the Night Court.”

_ Where else would she go? _ Lucien had known this would happen since the moment she returned to the spring court.

“Yes.”

Ianthe’s eyes were so dead. Brannagh and Dagdan  _ were _ dead.

When she left, Lucien would be alone. Truly, this time. No Alis to drink tea with at all hours of the night. Not her boys, who he prayed were headed towards better lives. Not the sentries, who were sure to revolt in the coming days, or Tamlin, who he had grown to hate, who would lock him away and rip into his flesh for allowing Feyre to escape. Lucien would be alone,  _ again, _ and even though he had done it before. Even though he had  _ survived _ before, the  _ prospect _ of doing so again was almost too much to bear.

A part of him hated Feyre. A part of him despised her for what she did to the spring court—how she ripped it apart from the insides to sate her hate for its foolish high lord. This court had  _ saved _ Lucien. It had given him a home, food, a job, a  _ family. _ The people here were  _ good _ . They were  _ kind  _ and they made cherry sweetbread during the holidays and they were hard working and  _ proud  _ and  _ resilient. _ Tamlin would do nothing for them, he  _ could  _ do nothing through his clouded vision. But Lucien—

_ Your debt to this court has been paid tenfold. You do not have to save it for a moment more. _

Lucien was not responsible for this court. He would always love them, always love the home they had given him. But he did not have to save it from the inside any longer. He  _ couldn’t _ . This court had nurtured him, just as its leader had ripped him apart and broken an already broken male.

_ My debt to this court has been paid. I do not have to save it from under Tamlin’s claws. Not anymore. _

“I’m going with you.”

“No.”

_ You’re not going to avoid me that easily,  _ Lucien thought, following Feyre as she walked away.

“You won’t make it without magic.”  _ Which, neither of us have. _

Lucien grabbed her arm. “I’m going with you. I’m getting you—I’m getting  _ us _ out of here.”

She looked at Lucien for just a moment before sighing, the heavy breath causing her to wince.

“Don’t make me regret this.”

It took  _ hours _ to trudge back to the caves. There was only one place to go, Lucien realized, and he didn’t like what it implied.

* * *

“I used to stay here hunting. Before I—left. It’s just for the night. We’ll find something to eat in the morning.”  _ Maybe _ . It was a risk—being here.  _ Hunting here. _

He watched her work, eyes heavy from exhaustion.

“I knew you were lying, Feyre.” Feyre leveled him with a look. Lucien matched it, unimpressed. “I have a— _ friend _ —at the dawn court. She has the same power as you—the same light you used back in Hybern. It does not do whatever horseshit you lied about it doing.”

“Then why not tell Tamlin? You were his faithful dog in every other sense.”

The words were like ice. For a moment, Lucien craved the dull nothingness he had grown accustomed too. But that feeling hadn’t returned since Ianthe… since—

“Glad to see the mask is off, at least,” he said, allowing the thoughts of the day behind them slip away.

And it was. There was only coldness and hate in her eyes.

Lucien snorted.  _ She wasn’t the only one taking off masks. _ “I didn’t tell him for two reasons. One, it felt like kicking a male already down. I couldn’t take that hope away from him.” Feyre rolled her eyes. “I couldn’t take that hope away from him  _ because _ it would mean the downfall of the fucking court. I suppose I shouldn’t have bothered. We’re—they’re fucked anyway.”

“And the second reason?” Feyre asked sweetly, bitterness still lining her face.

Lucien laughed humorlessly. “I don’t know…” He let the silence fester, leaning against the stone wall with tired limbs. “Maybe I wanted to see him break, too.”

“What do you have to be mad at him about?” Her eyes narrowed. Lucien looked to the cave ceiling, dull and gray and familiar.

When he didn’t answer, Feyre continued.

“Rhys told me—I think it was Rhys, at least—that Tamlin… whipped you. Under the mountain… Is that why?”

Lucien laughed at that—truly laughed. It was humorless, still, but genuine in its shock.

“I had forgotten about that, actually.”

“Then  _ what? _ ” Feyre asked, losing her patience. “Why would you, his faithful  _ hound _ , want to watch him suffer?”

“ _ Cauldron _ , you’re stupid, Feyre!”

_ “I’m  _ stupid? For someone that apparently hates Tamlin, you sure do a good job of serving his every whim.”

“Do you have  _ any idea _ everything I did to keep you from getting caught—”

“Did you fuck him?”

Her words were sharp, and Lucien felt them hit their mark as he went very still.  _ What did she hear in that clearing? _

Lucien spoke slowly.

“If you’re asking if I ever fucked Tamlin for  _ your  _ benefit… no.”

“I’m tired.” Feyre interrupted him. “And our voices echo. Let’s have it out when it's not likely to get us caught and killed.” 

In the darkness, Lucien spoke again, turning away from Feyre as she rested.

“My father will hunt you for taking his power if he finds out. And kill you for learning how to wield it.”

“He can get in line.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but more to come soon! Thanks for sticking with me :)


	15. Reunited - The Spark of Rage

They hiked for five days through Lucien’s birth-court. If he weren’t as exhausted as he was, perhaps old memories would surface. Memories of youthful ignorance and playfulness and bickering and love and Jesminda and death. He didn’t sleep much.

* * *

They ambushed the pair in the cold night. Lucien fought—kicking and reaching for his knife—but he was weak and had just been sleeping and still couldn’t  _ fucking _ winnow and—they pinned him to the cold dirt.  _ His brothers _ .

“Father,” Gyrtias said to Lucien, holding a knife to Feyre’s throat after they had woken her up and shoved them against the backs of heavy oaks, “Is rather put off that you didn’t stop to say hello.”

Gyrtias was, thankfully, an idiot. His other brother, holding a knife to Lucien’s throat, was also dumb as rocks. “We’re on an errand and can’t be delayed.”

Gyrtias pressed the knife a fraction harder against Feyre’s throat. “Right. Rumor has it you two have run off together, cuckolding Tamlin.” Gyrtias’ grin widened. “I didn’t think you had it in you, little brother.”

“He had it in  _ her, _ it seems,” Pytheus sniggered.

Feyre turned to Eris. “You will release us.”

“Our esteemed father wishes to see you. So you will come with us to his home.” Eris’ grin was as sickly as Lucien remembered.

“Eris,” Lucien warned.

Eris, the smartest of Lucien’s brothers, still did not seem to understand the  _ force _ that was Feyre Archeron. Lucien caught her eye. There was a plan brewing. He nodded slightly, the only indication that he understood as they wrenched the pair to their feet.

“After you,” Eris smiled, diplomatic and empty.

The ensuing fight was a flash of fists and elbows and  _ flame _ .

Lucien dared not ask for his cloak back, which hung tightly against Feyre’s shoulders as she pulled it closer to herself. Not as she shivered harder with it than Lucien did without. No, he would endure.

* * *

Lucien was going to die. So cold that it bit into every bit of flesh, so tired that he didn’t even shiver, Lucien was going to die. They huddled for warmth deep into the mountains.

He barely heard her voice over the howling winds.

“You said you were with Tamlin.” In the clearing—with  _ Ianthe. _

“You heard that?” Lucien asked, eyes screwed shut as he lay beside her, huddling close for as much skin to skin contact as they could manage.

“Did that start when I was… away?”

A laugh bubbled from Lucien. Were he not exhausted, he may have devolved into a fit.

“No, Feyre. It didn’t start when you were away.”

“So you lied.”

Another huff of laughter.

“You’ve been a fae for barely a year. There are things which you still don’t understand.”

“Like what?”

“Like—he’s a high lord, Feyre. He can… take as many…  _ lovers  _ as he wants.”

Feyre was silent for a moment.

“While him and I…”

Lucien sighed. “Yes.”

“And how long before?”

He was silent for a moment. But he was going to die anyway.

“Centuries.”

“…Oh.”

“It's not  _ like  _ that, Feyre. Besides, it was different with you.”

“What do you mean it's not  _ like  _ that? In the mortal world—”

“We’re not in the mortal world, Feyre.  _ You’re  _ not even mortal.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. Just that—” Feyre cut herself off. “It's fine.”

“It’s clearly not,” Lucien deadpanned.

“It’s just—It makes the things he said to you  _ worse _ , somehow.”

“What things?”

It was Feyre’s turn to laugh, then, cold and empty.

“He treated you like  _ shit _ —”

“He treated me better than most.” Lucien didn’t feel like he was defending Tamlin, per say. More, he was stating a fact.

“He  _ never _ listened to you. He was  _ constantly _ telling you what to do.”

“He’s the high lord,” Lucien shrugged. “Maybe it's different when you're mated to a high lord or when you're the savior of Prythian, but for most of us, that’s what we get.”

“You’re wrong,” was all Feyre said, and Lucien didn’t have the energy to argue as he fell into a cold and unforgiving sleep. Perhaps his last one.

* * *

Somehow, Lucien woke the next morning. He couldn’t feel anything in his toes or fingers, didn’t want to consider the lasting effects of such a biting wound.

They walked and walked until they were in the winter court.

_ Five more steps. Ten more from here. Small tasks. You can do five steps. Ten steps. _

There was no color in this place. Just silver gray skies and their silver white of the ice beneath them. Lucien’s hair, frozen against his head, flashed orange out of the corner of his eye. Flashing red. Flame.

And then Eris was there, with a wreath of fire in his hand.

“Run,” Lucien breathed.

_ Now I’m really going to die. _

“Run where, exactly?” Feyre hissed, and it was a good point.

They ran anyway, sprint unsteady against the slick ice.

“Faster,” Lucien pleaded, “Don’t look.”

The ice began to melt under their feet.

“Zag,” Lucien yelled into the harsh wind, “We need to—”

Lucien could  _ feel _ the arrow sing through the wind—a vestige of centuries of training with bows and blades alike. He pushed Feyre out of its path just in time, praying to the mother that she wouldn’t lose her balance.

_ “Faster.” _

The following seconds were chaotic with magic and arrows and winnowing. Lucien focused on the arrows, allowing Feyre to do whatever she needed to do with her magic to— _ hopefully _ —get them the fuck out of here.

The ice was melting below them and—

“This can end with you going under, begging me to get you out once that ice instantly refreezes,” Eris drawled. Lucien drew his knife, sizing up Gyrtias and Pytheus.  _ I’ve killed brothers before. This is fine. A completely normal thing to do. _ “Or this can end with you agreeing to take my hand. But either way, you will be coming with me.”

Gyrtias would die first. There was a new wound in his right leg—days old or centuries old Lucien couldn’t tell, but he favored his left. Then Pytheus. After all these years, he still kept his left flank unguarded. Eris on the other hand… he’d be harder.

A blinding light  _ erupted _ from Feyre. Lucien struck. He could winnow now, a sliver of his power returning, but he didn’t. Not when he had to conserve the little bit of power he had for something much more deadly.

The fire which erupted from Lucien’s fingertips was not how he remembered it. In the tundra, it reminded him of  _ lava  _ as it sprayed towards his brothers. He was running towards them then, a fury of magic and iron. Sparks flew around them as their blades clashed. Lucien was  _ ruthless _ .

Feyre’s scream was piercing.

_ “Feyre!”  _ Lucien roared, losing focus for half a moment while glancing over. The half second was enough, and Pytheus’ blade pierced Lucien’s gut, the iron pulled from him with a wrenching twist. Lucien choked the scream of pain into a wet cough, turning back to his brothers with fire in his eyes. A half turn was enough. A half turn Pytheus hadn’t expected Lucien to be able to do after his bloody blow. But Lucien had not given up yet. His sword was raised and bloody, and he swung it down on Pytheus with a precision his brother had never been able to manage. His brother blocked the blow with his own blade a second early enough, and Lucien brought it down again.  _ Again, and again, and again _ he brought his blade down, dodging Gyrtias’ own blows with half a thought.

“Stop.”

Lucien had heard that voice before. Not from Feyre—she had never spoken like that. Though the word came from Feyre’s lips, it was  _ Tamlin  _ he heard.  _ Tamlin  _ and Lucien’s  _ father _ and  _ Rhys _ and all the other high lords he had met over the centuries.

Lucien did the only thing he could. He stopped.

His breath was unsteady, and he dared not lower his sword as his brothers stood before him, bloody and furious. Lucien too, was bloody and furious. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t look at the two Illyrians who now flanked her. 

“You all deserve to die for this. And for much, much more. But I am going to spare your miserable lives.”

His brothers had stopped, blades lowering slightly. He didn’t know what they saw in his brother before him, but there was fear in their eyes as they met his gaze.

Lucien turned from them, walking towards Feyre.

She was tattooed— _ that was new _ , and beyond that, surrounded by an air of power Lucien was all too familiar with.

“I am High Lady of the Night Court,” she said quietly, though no one was foolish enough to act as if they hadn’t heard.

“There’s no such thing as a High Lady,” Gyrtias spat, and Lucien noted with faint satisfaction that he was holding up Pytheus, who was slumping more and more with each second. He would die soon, without medical attention.

_ He deserves it. _

“There is now.” She turned to one of the Illyrians. “Take me home. Take us both home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof more Lucien suffering. Also shout out to SJM for not naming any of her minor characters and forcing me to do it lmao. Like okay fair Feyre wouldn't know the names of Lucien's brothers but Lucien sure fucking would. I picked pretty goofy names because I thought they were funny lmao. Gotta give the goons some personality.
> 
> A random conglomerate of unrelated thoughts:  
> >I've been reading this polyamorous witcher fic and now I'm eyeing Cassian/Azriel/Lucien LMAO. Someone stop me before its just Lucien/entire ACOTAR cast.  
> >fjsljfslkjd I have so many thoughts on what's to come like sneak peak but what if it was Lucien who burned Rhys' mother's and sister's wings all those years ago??? Like what if he gave them as much of a funerary ceremony as he could and aslfjwelfjsl YALL  
> >and the TRAUMA? Like Lucien's FINALLY gonna feel safe and then his brain is gonna be like 'okay cool so we can deal with your trauma now, right? like we can start working through this via nightmares and hypersensitive triggers?' and yall thought the angst was over  
> >oh and that scene in the novella where Lucien comes back from the spring court with a black eye that Tamlin gave him??? I cannot WAIT for that one. The inner court's reactions? Rhys' reaction?  
> >I'm probably giving away too much oop  
> > Also I love how you guys are starting to interact in the comments! It makes me feel like a proud mother lmao. So keep doing it! Keep predicting things! It inspires me to keep writing.  
> >watch me just zoom past the rest of the books I'm tired of just ctrl+c ctrl+v all the dialogue and interjecting Lucien's thoughts. Also I really don't want to write like 2 months of Lucien rallying troops and shit


	16. Velaris: Day One

As much as he could avoid a man he carried through the skies, the Illyrian avoided Lucien. Lucien himself didn’t mind, not as everything grew hazy. He wondered if the Illyrian could smell the blood staining his leathers through Lucien’s own loose, frozen clothes. If he noticed—he said nothing.

Lucien flinched back to consciousness when they landed. Had it been seconds? Minutes? A familiar face greeted them where they landed.  _ The Morrigan _ , eyes raking across Lucien’s form, inquizitive and mistrustful. 

It was the other Illyrian, the one who hadn’t provided Lucien the lift— _ mother, he really needed to learn their names— _ who spoke.

“He fought against Eris and the other two.”

_ Does she remember?  _ Lucien wondered hazily,  _ Does she remember the last time we met, in the front yard of Rosehall, a weak and desperate Feyre Archeron in her arms? She must. _

Mor turned from Lucien.

“Eris. Did you—”

“He remains alive.” The Illyrian beside Lucien said. “So do the others.”

“Then let’s go home,” Mor said.

Feyre spoke then, glancing to Lucien in a way he was sure she hadn’t intended to be so obvious.

_ Still hiding your city from me? The city Hybern revealed months ago? _

Lucien watched Mor as she examined him again. Watched as she grappled her hate for his bloodline with her knowledge of his loyalty to Feyre.

“The townhouse,” she decided. “You have someone there waiting for you.”

* * *

Lucien knew all eyes were on him once they winnowed. For a moment, he didn’t  _ care _ because  _ Arion and Oti _ were here and that must mean Alis was here and— _ maybe I’m losing more blood than I thought. _ Because they  _ couldn’t _ be here and—

Those were  _ children  _ in the streets beyond and they were—they were  _ laughing _ .

Alis had never let her boys make that much noise. Not when Tamlin had been so close to snapping at any given moment. No, Arion and Oti had learned from the start how to be perfect, courtly children. As much as they hated it.

The Illyrians looked ready to kill him when he turned, looking at Feyre. He said the only thing he could manage—the obvious.

“There are children laughing in the streets.”

Lucien didn’t know if he had ever heard the sound. Unbridled, uncaring. Not when he was in the depths of the Autumn court—there was only cruel laughter and sniggering there. Not in the spring court—too few children, too much instability, too much  _ fear _ .

A child’s laughter was a beautiful sound.

“That they do so at all after Hybern’s attack is testament to how hard the people of Velaris have worked to rebuild.”

Feyre whirled at the voice, and Lucien followed her gaze.

There was no name for the creature who stood before them, a short thing with silver eyes, wearing the flesh of a high fae. Lucien had known her only by the names his brothers and tutors had used in his youth to scare him into doing what they wanted.

“I see you brought home a new pet.”

Lucien again did the first thing that came to mind—he bowed. Deeply, too. When he rose, he did so slowly. He had not trudged through the mountains for a week just to die at the hands of the dread goddess before him.

“Already trained, I see.”

Feyre’s eyes were narrowed at Lucien, but her body turned to the creature before them.

“Amren, this is Lucien… Vanserra.”

_ How long has she known that name? _

“I don’t use my family’s name—”  _ too standoffish _ . He inclined his head to the creature— _ Amren, _ “Lucien will do.”

“Clever work.” Lucien didn’t know if she was referring to his eye, which she stared at with a half smile, or something else entirely. He didn’t much want to ask. “Looks like someone clawed you up, girl.”

The dread goddess’ reminder strung in Lucien’s gut. The bleeding had stopped, at least. The memory of Pytheus’s blade in Lucien’s gut played in the man’s mind with each heartbeat.

“What is this place?” Lucien asked, then, taking in again his surroundings.

“Home,” Feyre said, “This is—my home. This is Velaris, the city of starlight.”

“And you are the high lady of the night court.”

“Indeed she is.”

Rhys’ voice, at least, was as Lucien had expected it.

Lucien turned away as Feyre and her mate were reunited. He heard her quiet sob, the thud of her knees on the carpet as she fell. He heard Rhys: “Go find somewhere else to be for a while” and he felt the weight of a hand on his back, guiding him out of the townhouse. He didn’t resist.

The nightmare—Amren—stalked off without so much as a word the moment the door closed behind them. Mor, too, winnowed away, sparing the Illyrians a soft smile which very obviously did not extend to Lucien.

That left Lucien alone with the Illyrians. They were taller than him by a few inches—of course they were, they were  _ Illyrians _ . They towered over Lucien, hard lines of mistrust carved into their faces. Lucien said nothing, lowering his gaze to a flower bed across the street.  _ Who would have thought the night court planted flowers? _

The hand on his lower back rose to Lucien’s shoulder, its grip a vice anchoring him to his spot. Lucien didn’t look up. It was the long haired one who held him where he was, as if Lucien had plans to run to Hybern and spill this place’s secrets. As if this wasn’t paradise splayed before him. As if he wouldn’t die to protect this strange land.

It was the other one who spoke, the one who gathered shadows on his wings.

“There is a certain blade technique I developed many centuries ago,” the shadowsinger said as Lucien’s eyes remained fixed on the flowerbed. The wound in his gut had dulled to a constant throbbing. The exhaustion remained. “It allows me to rip out a male’s intestines while he watches, fully conscious.” The Illyrian with the hand on Lucien’s shoulder chuckled lowly, his grip tightening. “If you ever threaten anyone in this territory, I  _ personally  _ will make sure you are intimately acquainted with the technique.”

Lucien felt his neck ache as he nodded slightly.

_ Whatever. _

The next hours passed slowly. The Illyrians guided Lucien away from the town house and to a tavern a quick walk away. No one questioned the trio as they entered and sat down, and Lucien was decidedly silent as the two Illyrians grunted their way through a conversation around him. They ordered themselves drinks and offered Lucien none. Lucien wasn’t interested in drinks anyway. Even if he was, he had no money. He had nothing. The female who delivered the Illyrians ale offered Lucien a rag to clean his face with. He accepted it with a grateful and tired smile.

During a lull in the Illyrians’ conversation, they both stood in unison and moved to leave, taking Lucien with them. Lucien maintained his silence as they walked back into the street and towards the townhouse once more.

* * *

Lucien was directed to the sitting room, and he sat there in muted silence as the Illyrians ate lunch, watching him like eagles. Lucien did his best to ignore it.

Feyre looked…  _ better…  _ as she walked back down the stairs. Cleaner, at least. There was a light in her eyes that had been smothered by hate while she was in the Spring Court. As Rhysand fell into step beside her, the source of that happiness—that light—became blindingly obvious. Lucien, exhausted and foolish and in pain, wasn’t able to disguise the grimace which flashed across his face.

_ Why? Why does she get such happiness after the ruin she has wrought on the Spring Court? Why has she been blessed with a mating bond after so few years? Feyre fucking Cursebreaker, Savior of Prythian and wrath formed flesh. A— _ Rhysand spoke before Lucien could finish the thought.

“I assume Cassian or Azriel has explained that if you threaten anyone in this house, this territory, we’ll show you ways to die you’ve never even imagined.”  _ Those were their names, then. _ Lucien nodded. His place here was clear. “But,” Rhysand continued, sliding his hands into his pockets, “I can understand how difficult this past month has been for you. I know Feyre explained we aren’t exactly as rumor suggests… But hearing it and seeing it are two different things.” 

_ You know nothing. Not here—not in this piece of paradise—you know nothing of what I’ve been through. What that court has been through at the hands of him. You fool, you— _

Lucien choked the thoughts which were fed like a roaring flame within him. If he let them go farther, he would shatter in this sitting room. He remained silent. He wondered how much of him was laid bare before Rhysand and Feyre, each daemati in their own rights.

“I’m going to visit my sisters.” Feyre said into the silence, awkward and forced, leaving the room with a concerned look towards Rhys, and then towards Lucien. The Illyrians, Cassian and Azriel, followed their high lady. Rhys lingered, an unreadable expression on his face.

“Lucien,” Rhysand said quietly, the two alone in the sitting room. It was painfully awkward.

“Don’t,” Lucien begged softly. “I have escorted you mate and high lady back to your lands safely. I beg you, allow me a night of rest before you pass your judgement.” Lucien closed his eyes, leaning his head against the plush of the high backed chair.

Whatever unreadable expression Rhysand had worn melted away into something more obvious—humor, which danced in his eyes and the corner of his mouth.

“You’re not a prisoner, Lucien.”

“No, tonight, I am your honored guest. Tomorrow, make of me what you will. No court will advocate for me.”

Lucien had friends and allies in every court. But war was nigh, and the night court was a different beast. None of his many allies would risk any of their political leeway for Lucien. Not right now.

“For such an intelligent male, you have always been so blind to the most obvious truths.”

Lucien opened his eyes, meeting Rhysand’s gaze, who held it, steady and amused.

“Rhys—”

“If you finish my name, I’ll invite Amren back in here to reintroduce herself.”

“You’re still touchy about the whole name thing?” Lucien asked, exhaustion settling into his bones the longer he sat.

The high lord was quiet for a moment, his expression shifting into a soft, sad smile.

“You only ever call me Rhysand when you’re scared of me.”

Lucien closed his eyes again, unable to bear the high lord’s pitying gaze.

“Don’t,” he begged again, “Stop playing with your food, high lord—”

The high lord cut him off, “First Rhysand, and now ‘high lord.’ Lucien,” he admonished lightly.

“Rhys.” The room sat in heavy silence. “You were right. About everything. I was blind and foolish and in love and now I see too much and I’ve been split in two and I’m bleeding on your carpet. I have run for my life from two courts and have been told that if I make one wrong move in this one, I will be watching my own intestines as they are pulled from me. Whatever  _ game  _ this is you wish to play now is too much—I am broken and raw and if I could kneel before you without collapsing and begin  _ begging _ , I would. My soul craves rest.”

Rhys was somber as he responded, low and serious: “Rest tonight. Rest tomorrow. If you want, rest of the rest of this Mother’s-damned war, Lucien. You’ve more than earned it. Let my home become a place of respite for you, and one day, a home of your own. Not because of what you did for my mate, not because of Tamlin or your father or any reason other than you are my friend and a good male who has suffered.”

“One day. I only need one day.”

Rhys sighed, offering a hand to the red haired high fae, who was half asleep on his reading chair. Lucien took it, raising himself to standing with its support.

“Let me show you to your room. It's next door.”

Rhys winnowed them less than a hundred feet north, to the upper level of the town house next door.

“Cassian claims the bottom floor when he’s in Velaris. The top floor is all yours.” Lucien 

Rhys opened a door, revealing a bedroom.

It wasn’t like his room in Tamlin’s Rosehall, which acted as Lucien’s autumnal rebellion against an oppressive spring. It wasn’t like his room in the autumn court, a distant memory of oil paintings and deep oak. With this room’s pale gray linens, plain decorations, and eggshell walls, Feyre would have called this room a blank canvas. 

Rhys led Lucien to the bed, helping him sit on it. The act of sitting on the pristine bed with his bloody and soaked clothes felt deeply wrong, but Lucien said nothing.

“I can clean you with magic, if you are unable to bath right now. Only with your consent, of course. The choice is yours.”

Lucien waved and made a grunt which he hoped came across as the intended ‘yes, sure, fine.” As he felt the familiar buzz of magic around him for a split second, he assumed Rhys understood, as a week’s worth of grime and blood and sweat was waved away. His clothes, too, were cleaned, though they remained torn and permanently damaged. Still—good enough to sleep in.

Lucien offered another grunt— _ ‘thank you’ _ —slumping to a horizontal position on the bed below him. 

“If you’re awake later today, we’ll be having dinner at the house of wind,” was the last thing Lucien heard before falling into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so in the actual book they kind have a fight and I did not write a 30k redemption arc fic for Lucien just for him to be an asshole the moment he gets to the night court and for Rhys to also be an asshole the moment he sees him.
> 
> Also how funny do you think it would be if you're sitting with two giant illyrian warriors and suddenly they both go quiet for a second and then like... stand up and leave with no explanation. literally pure comedy it must seem so WEIRD if you're not tuned into Rhys' fucking AM Radio channel.
> 
> Also the fact that they continue to act like Velaris is a giant fucking secret even though Hybern enacted a large scale attack months earlier. Dumbasses, all of them. Literally everyone knows it exists idiots (they may not know WHERE, but the secret is out: Night Court has a secret city).
> 
> Okay also just so I don't freak any of you out, this will probably be one of the last chapters of this work. I want to start fresh with the tags/summary of the Az/Lucien stuff, so that'll probably be posted as its own story. But don't worry, I'll be keeping you updated and it will become painfully obvious where to find the next installment. In the meantime, we have a few more chapters here!
> 
> Oh, and a quick update on my footnotes for last chapter! I mentioned being interested in incorporating some az/lucien/cas throuple stuff, and I was thinking about your comments and considering what I was willing to take on as a writer, and I think right now, this is my plan:  
> The main romantic pairing will be Lucien/Azriel (which is gonna be interesting, because Lucien is either a chaotic little shit or super polite and Az is either super polite or the embodiment of unstoppable rage)  
> The main /platonic/ focus will be Azriel/Lucien/Cassian. Cassian will probably be actively simping over Nesta (for some fucking reason - sorry, Nesta stans. I'll try to do her justice but she pisses me off sometimes) and while there will probably be some homoerotic subtext sprinkled throughout the friendship trio, platonically, i'm gonna focus on Lucien and Cassian's developing friendship (which is going to be so fucking chaotic holy fuck) and Azriel and Cassian's weird on again off again fwb homoerotic friendship, which is gonna have a Lucien-sized wrench thrown in there.  
> Point is, I expect a lot of 'lets get drunk so we can talk about our feelings' scenes. Rhys and Feyre will be mostly busy rebuilding Prythian and being in love, Mor is busy being gay, Amren is busy being cooler than everyone, and Tamlin will be in the story every once in a while to add some necessary angst. Also, Lucien is gonna come into his OWN. I'm really excited about this guys. You can probably tell by how often I'm updating, lmao.
> 
> If you read all of these notes, I'm very proud of you, and please let me know your thoughts in the comments!


	17. Dinner in the Night Court: The Head of the Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to address something I saw in the comments a few times in last chapter: Lucien did not actually hear Alis' boys outside of Rhys' townhouse. Lucien was just experiencing ✨blood loss✨ and since children are so rare and the only thing he could think of was Arian and Oti, his brain was like 'well obv they're here'. I do have plans to reintroduce them to the story, but not right now. I apologize for the confusion!

Lucien woke on his own hours later, the afternoon sun streaming in from the window of the decidedly neutral room. He was  _ technically _ clean now, though he didn’t feel it; Magical cleanings always felt so  _ shallow _ to Lucien. The bath was attached to the bedroom, spelled with perpetually hot water.

The spells, the  _ charms  _ here were so odd, so obviously crafted by different fae than those who charmed the spring court. Night Court charms and glamours were… deeper—colder. While Spring Court charms and wards were more detailed and delicate—like the gentle and pungent flowers in Rosehall’s rose garden, Night Court charms and wards  _ bit _ , like leaning your face and neck against cool metal in the early morning, before sunrise. Lucien examined the charms and wards around him as he cleaned himself in the bath, dispelling them and building them up again from the discarded parts. Dusty memories of mostly-forgotten schooling and wardcraft resurfaced in the hot bath.

When he had grown bored disarming and rearming the wards on the townhouse, and had finished adjusting the charm on the bath to fit his preferences more accurately, he rose from the bath, padding back into the bedroom. His soaking hair drips, leaving a trail of water behind him.

He didn’t manage to put any clothes on before collapsing on the large bed once again, into a deep and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Lucien woke up with a start. A knock—

“Hello? What?”  _ Shit _ . He was naked on top of all the sheets. He scrambled in his haze, grabbing a pillow and covering his privates as he scanned the room for the intruder, for his knives, which he quickly realized had completely disappeared at some point in the last day.  _ “Fuck, _ who is it?”

“Azriel,” a deep voice responded from the other side of the bedroom door. Rhys had thankfully closed the bedroom door at some point before leaving.

“Which one is that?” Lucien said back, blinking away heavy sleep.

There was a still silence on the other side of the door, and then the same deep voice: “I do not know how to respond to that question.”

“Nevermind,” Lucien muttered, rising from the bed, pillow still covering his privates. There was a dresser on the other side of the room, and Lucien pulled one of the drawers open to find a folded outfit accompanied with a note in a familiar scrawl.

_ For dinner tonight. -Rhys _

The outfit was—simple. A dark gray button down sewn of silk. Black dress pants. A suit jacket of an earthy gray tone. Night court colors and fabirc, but decidedly  _ not  _ night court fashion—it was far too conservative.

“If you would like an escort to the house of wind for dinner, I will be downstairs,” Azriel said from the other side of the door, and Lucien listened to his soft footsteps receding as he buttoned up the silk dress shirt.

A quick look in the bathroom mirror allowed Lucien to catalog. His magic was mostly back, and though the wound in his gut had thankfully scabbed over, it still stung and ached when he moved. Still, he would survive. The litany of bruises littered across him were hidden by the outfit, for which Lucien was grateful. There was a cord of leather next to the sink—Lucien used it to tie back his hair, which had taken on a slight wave and was still slightly damp.

With a quick sigh—which— _ fuck— _ hurt his side—he left the room.

“It's her or Vanserra, Az.”

“You do not need to push yourself right now.”

“War is coming—”

“That is even more the reason to conserve your strength, Cassian.”

“If you want to take Vanserra up the mountain, be my guest. But I’m taking Feyre.”

“Rhys can take her.”

“Rhys is already there with Mor.”

They both turned to Lucien for a moment as he walked down the steps before they turned back to each other, resuming their argument.

“Is there any chance I could convince you to focus on getting yourself up the mountain without lugging Feyre along with you?” 

“No,” grinned the long haired one—Cassian.

“You are being foolish,” retorted Azriel with a sigh.

“You are being overbearing and obnoxious.” Cassian turned to Lucien, “Evening, Vanserra,” he said with a feral grin that didn’t meet his eyes.

“Good evening. Please, Lucien is fine.”  _ Preferred, actually _ .

Cassian huffed half a laugh, waving him off, while Azriel examined Lucien, no doubtedly noting the tightness in his expression.

“Are you ready?” Azriel asked neutrally.

“Yes,” Lucien responded, equally neutrally. “I  _ can  _ winnow, if you describe the destination.”

Cassian huffed a laugh, standing from his seat. “Not there you can't.”

“We should leave soon.” Azriel said, nodding towards Lucien before heading towards the front door. Cassian let Lucien follow the shadowsinger out before following behind him closely.  _ Strategic. Smart. _ Lucien began cataloging.

The dread goddess—Amren—had to hold an advisory position, if she didn’t secretly run the entire court. The Morrigan’s position was common enough knowledge: she ruled the Hewn City. Azriel—as a shadowsinger, he likely collected information of some kind. Lucien would have known if he was an emissary, and Lucien had never heard of either of the Illyrians before this year. Likely a spymaster. That left Cassian—leader of the Illyrians? Lucien mulled over the thought.

There was no desperation or bleeding wounds of the morning as they flew above Velaris. The panic of death from the last flight was quickly replaced with a muted panic of heights as the city grew smaller below them. If the shadowsinger noticed Lucien’s racing heart rate, he said nothing, preferring a stifling silence as they flew.

If Lucien had eaten anything substantial in the past week, he might have spilled it onto the redstone floors upon landing.

The sun was setting, more beautiful than anything Lucien had ever seen, and he watched its descent with a buzzing mind of thoughts he dared not acknowledge. Around him, people moved and chatted, and Lucien absorbed it from a muted distance.

And then they all moved to the table. People sat as they talked, and as Lucien approached, there was only one spot left.

He looked to Rhys helplessly. “I—shouldn't you sit at the head?”

Rhys raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care where you sit. I only care about eating something right”—he snapped his fingers—“now.”

Lucien slid into the seat slowly and awkwardly as the food appeared, wishing desperately he was sitting anywhere else.  _ Tamlin would never— _

A familiar voice rang in Lucien’s mind, “ _ Tamlin’s not here.” _

_ “Stop reading my mind a—please.” _

_ “I know you were going to call me an asshole just now.” _ Rhys returned, grinning from across the table.  _ “And if you hadn’t projected the thoughts like arrows, I wouldn’t have heard them.” _

_ “Now my thoughts are too loud?”  _ Lucien shot back, and then quickly shut up. This  _ game _ —Rhys was playing may be fun for him, but Lucien was jesting with a high lord. The smarter course of action was to swiftly shut up.

Feyre must have read something on Lucien’s face, discomfort or the like, for she leaned over to him, “You get used to it—the informality.” There was a conspiratorial tone in her voice, as if they were sharing some secret and the whole table wasn’t currently listening to their high lady. She grinned, and there was a light in her eyes Lucien had never seen.

“You say that, Feyre darling, like it's a bad thing,” Rhys said, passing Feyre a platter of fish.

“It took me by surprise that first dinner we all had, just so you know,” Feyre smiled back at her mate.

“Oh, I know.”

“Honestly,” Feyre continued, turning back to Lucien, “Azriel’s the only polite one.” Lucien eyed the shadowsinger and imagined his own intestines being pulled out by his hands.  _ Polite my ass _ . “Don’t even try to pretend it's not true.”

“Of course it’s true,” The Morrigan said with a loud sigh, “but you needn’t make us sound like heathens.”

“I would have thought you’d find that term to be a compliment, Mor,” Rhys said mildly. 

Mor snorted. Lucien watched in silence as they continued to converse, a long awaited reunion.  _ A family _ . He allowed faint surprise to shine through on his features.

“You’d be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble,” Amren said.

“It remains to be seen if they’ll be joining us,” Rhys responded, and Lucien was officially lost. Rhys seemed to notice, for he shrugged as if to say ‘ _ fuck it’ _ . “You’ll find out soon enough, I suppose. Invitations are going out tomorrow, calling all the High Lords to gather to discuss this war.”

Lucien tensed.  _ Tamlin would never say yes, he would sell everything he learned to Hybern to get Feyre back. _

“All?” Lucien asked. Rhys nodded, examining Lucien.

He considered. This informality—did it extend to him?

“May I offer my unsolicited advice?”

Rhys smirked. “I think that’s the first time anyone at this table has ever asked such a thing.” But he waved a lazy hand at Lucien. “By all means, advise away.”

“I assume Feyre is going.”

“I am.”

Amren sipped from her glass of blood—the only sound in the room as Lucien considered again.

“Are you planning to hide her powers?”

Silence.

Rhys at last said, “That was something I’d planned to discuss with my mate. Are you leaning one way or another, Lucien?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone. A leader, asking for council from his court— _ no, I am not a part of this court. No matter what Rhys says, I will have to leave. This is temporary. _

Still, Lucien was happy to offer advice while he was here. It was a simple task, an easy distraction from what he had done.

“My father would likely join with Hybern if he thought he stood a chance of getting his power back that way—by killing you.” Feyre looked sick. Rhys snarled, and Lucien wondered if he had gone too far.  _ This isn't my place. _

“Your brothers saw me, though,” Feyre said, setting down her fork. “Perhaps they could mistake the flame as yours, but the ice …”

Lucien jerked his chin to Azriel. “That’s the information you need to gather. What my father knows —if my brothers realized what she was doing. You need to start from there, and build your plan for this meeting accordingly.”

Mor said, “Eris might keep that information to himself and convince the others to as well, if he thinks it’ll be more useful that way.” She had gone a bit pale at the thought.

Lucien said evenly, “Perhaps. But we need to find that out. If Beron or Eris has that information, they’ll use it to their advantage in that meeting—to control it. Or control you. Or they might not show up at all, and instead go right to Hybern.”

Cassian swore softly, the jovial mood in the room thoroughly soured.

Rhys swirled his wine once, set it down, and said to Lucien, “You and Azriel should talk. Tomorrow.”

Lucien glanced toward the shadowsinger—who only nodded at him. “I’m at your disposal.”

_ Polite _ . Lucien nodded and looked back down at his food, which was simple, but flavorful enough to remind him of his time in university, or dinners with Alis.

The mood never truly recovered through the course of the dinner. Lucien kept out of it, picking at his food and keeping his gaze low.

* * *

Azriel flew Lucien back, and it was just as awkward going down the mountain as it was going up.

“Where shall we meet tomorrow?” Lucien asked as they touched down before the townhouse beside the High Lord’s.

“I’ll pick you up here,” Azriel nodded. “It will have to be a lunch time meeting, I apologize for the informatility.”

Lucien nodded. “It is no problem at all. I will see you then.”

Azriel offered a shallow nod and was gone.

Lucien shuddered out a breath, emotionally and physically exhausted. He walked up to the bedroom, finding a set of sleeping clothes waiting for him.

_ I suppose I’ve been granted one more day. _

He changed and slept, dreamless and heavy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sdfjsdjfs;l I cant stop writing this stupid story help me. Also Lucien waking up and being very fucking confused? I love that shit. King behavior. He's tired, cut him some slack.


	18. Baring my Soul Over Turkey Sandwiches

The bruises were gone by the time he woke. The stab wound was healed too, nothing more than a puffy pink scar in his gut—another scar from another brother.

A small clock told him it was ten. He had approximately two hours, then. There were more clothes waiting for him in the dresser. Not just in tones of gray and blacks. Whoever had stocked the dresser had added oranges and reds, along with greens and golds. Colors typical of the Autumn and Spring courts. Lucien grabbed a light gray shirt and black pants, refusing to consider the implications.

He made his way downstairs on light feet, finding Cassian scrawling out a letter in the sitting room. Lucien nodded to the Illyrian, and Cassian ignored him, concentration in his brow. There was a small bookshelf on the other side of the sitting room, and Lucien picked the first book he saw.

_ Out of the Mountain - An Examination of the Illyrian Forces throughout Prythian’s History _

Was Cassian a war strategist, then? A general, perhaps? Or maybe Lucien’s original guess was correct, and Cassian merely controlled the Illyrian troops. Lucien spent an hour dissecting the book, which was painfully dense and contained excerpts in a language Lucien didn’t recognize. By the end of the hour, he had learned more about the arial wedge—a military strategy improved upon and perfected by the Illyrians—than he ever expected to know. Cassian, still on the other side of the room, had moved on from his letter to a stack of papers which he scanned and occasionally tooks quick notes on or signed.

“Is Az here for you or me?” he asked Lucien when they heard a knock on the door.

“Assuming it's lunchtime, me.”

Cassian huffed an affirmation and went back to his papers.

Lucien opened the door. “Azriel. Good afternoon.” The words felt stiff on his tongue.

The shadowsinger looked as he had the day before, and Lucien took a moment to compare  _ that _ Azriel to the one Lucien had met in Hybern.

His hair had grown out since Hybern, and, in Lucien’s unbiased opinion, it framed his face better.  _ Though _ , Lucien quickly amended, _ the Illyrian’s face had been constricted in absolute agony in Hybern, so he would’ve looked much better no matter what his hair looked like. _ His wings were, as they always were, coalesced with shadow which seemed almost to pour off of the leathery structure. The sun seemed to repel the male, and his face seemed cloaked in a slight shadow, even as he stood on cobblestone where sunlight should have fallen upon. He wore armor with seven sapphire gems embedded throughout. Lucien felt their magic humm in unison.

“Good afternoon. My office is a quick walk from here.”

They walked in silence. The people of the city said nothing as the pair walked past, offering muted smiles and shallow nods. The shadowsinger nodded back, and so too did Lucien. When they reached the shadowsinger’s office, Lucien would have walked past it if not for the subtle cough of Azriel, who had stopped and pulled out an iron key. It resembled a storefront, vaguely, though there were no windows. Lucien felt the pressing weight of heavy wards as he entered, though they did not push him away as he followed the spymaster.

They walked through a short series of hallways and into a large office. Locked cabinets and bookshelves filled with old tomes lined the walls, and a large desk sat in the center of the room, neatly organized with stacks of papers bound in string, next to a wooden box which smelled of meat. Azriel offered Lucien a seat across from him, and sat himself on his side of the desk. He opened the small wooden box, pulling out two sandwiches wrapped in cloth and handing Lucien one.

“I hope turkey will suffice?”

Lucien nodded, unwrapping the turkey sandwich. “Thank you.”

“I pulled out the records we have on your brothers. Would you be willing to identify the two brothers who were with Eris in the winter court and confirm our records for accuracy?”

_ Right to the fucking point, then. _

Lucien nodded, pulling out Gyrtias and Pytheus from the three pages and setting aside the other sheet. He splayed the sheets before him. Eris, Gyrtias, and Pytheus. Gyrtias and Pytheus’ sheets were relatively short and straightforward. Date of birth, significant relationships, likelihood of succeeding Baron (low). Eris’ was the full sheet of parchment, front and back. Lucien had no doubt there was more filed away.

“All the relevant bits are correct.” Lucien said, not looking up from Eris’ form as he finished skimming it. “Gyrtias and Pytheus. They’re followers. If Eris tells them to keep their mouth shut, they will.”

“How likely is Eris to tell them not to say anything?”

“I haven’t spoken to my brothers in a long time,” Lucien said, suddenly very tired once again. “But if there’s something in it for him, or if it will get him closer to our father’s position, quite likely.”

_ There are some parts of your soul you do not need to give so freely. _

“When was the last time you spoke to Eris?”

Lucien suppressed a sigh, exhausted already by the masked interrogation.

“A century ago. We chanced upon each other in the Day Court.”

_ Chanced, my ass _ . Eris had been angling to meet Lucien for years. Lucien had finally gotten bored of evading his eldest brother and told one of his spies to spread a rumor that spring court’s emissary would be in the Day Court in a week’s time. Lo and behold, a week later, Eris had ‘accidentally run into’ Lucien, and had dragged him to an overly formal and painfully uncomfortable lunch. That had been an… eye opening trip.

Azriel asked, “What were you doing in the Day Court?”

“I work—ed as an emissary for the Spring Court for most of my life. I was there on business for Tamlin.”

Azriel looked at Lucien for a long time, and Lucien looked back, face a cool mask of neutrality. Softly, Azriel sighed, taking back the summary files of Lucien’s brothers and pulling out two new pieces of paper. He slid them over to Lucien slowly, turned over as not to reveal their contents.

“Rhys has made it very clear that you do not need to answer any of the following questions. At any time, you may choose to move on.”

Azriel continued, “This is the same question as before. Can you confirm these documents for accuracy?”

Lucien eyed the spymaster, and flipped the first paper over.

Tamlin - High Lord of the Spring Court

Age: approx. 500

Residence: Rosehall Manor, Spring Court

Abilities: Shapeshifting, winnowing, glamouring, air manipulation, warding

Lucien kept reading.  _ Anger issues _ . He kept reading.  _ Known relationships: Lucien Vanserra (sexual [confirmed], romantic [unconfirmed], employee [confirmed]).  _ He kept reading. 

The High Lord of Spring, reduced to lines of ink on parchment.

“He—um,” Lucien tore his gaze from the sheet. He didn’t look at Azriel, staring instead at one of the corners of his desk. “Alis isn’t loyal to him. And the sentries—they were more loyal to me than they were to him—if they haven’t revolted or collapsed yet, they will in the coming weeks.”  _ Bad idea. This was a bad idea.  _ He heard the scritch of a fountain pen on parchment as Azriel took notes.

Lucien looked back at the parchment. “There’s no—” he choked out a desperate laugh, “There’s no underground bunker under the rose garden. It’s—It’s a rumor I started centuries ago to keep them from finding the vaults under Rosehall.”

“Where is the entrance to this vault?” Azriel asked.

Lucien huffed another laugh, “You robbed the male of his bride, and now you want to know where his money is, too?” Lucien didn’t miss the flash of anger in the shadowsinger’s eyes, but he ignored it as the silence settled, heavy and thick.  _ I didn’t mean it like that.  _ “In the master bedroom. In the first closet to the right of the bathroom, one of the wood panels is fake. It's pretty self explanatory from there. Heavily warded—by his great grandfather, I think.”

Azriel continued to write. Lucien shut up before he began rambling. There was still one sheet of parchment remaining. Lucien didn’t have a hard time guessing who would be on the other side. He turned it over.

Lucien Vanserra - Emissary of the Spring Court (confirmed) Spymaster of the Spring Court (confirmed)

Age: approx. 350

Residence: Rosehall, Spring Court

Abilities: Winnowing, fire

_ Half right. _

Notable Relationships:

Beron Vanserra (HL Autumn) - Father (strained - see H51.263.J “Jesminda”)

Eris Vanserra (Autumn) - Brother (strained - see H51.263.J “Jesminda”)

Jesminda (Autumn) - Romantic/Sexual (confirmed) _deceased_ (see H51.263.J “Jesminda”)

Tamlin (HL Spring) - Sexual (confirmed), Romantic (unconfirmed), Employer (confirmed)

Alis (Spring) - Friendship (confirmed), Romantic/Sexual (unconfirmed)

Feyre Archeron (HL Night) - Friendship (unconfirmed), Romantic/Sexual (unconfirmed)

“Cauldron boil me, who  _ don’t  _ you think I’ve fucked?”

“The notes listed are based on rumors I’ve gathered, true or false. If anything is untrue, I can alter the document now.”

_ I hate this. _

Lucien gritted his teeth, huffing out a breath. “Tamlin. Sexual relationship ended months ago. Romantic relationship—confirmed—ended two years ago.” Lucien didn’t say ‘When Feyre arrived’ but he assumed it was implied. “Alis. As of a week ago, she is no longer a member of the Spring Court. Romantic and sexual relationship—nonexistent. Feyre—what word did you use earlier? When referring to my brothers? Strained? Yeah—that. Romantic and sexual relationship—nonexistent. Any more questions?”

“Alis,” Azriel said, taking notes. “What court is she now a part of?”

“Alis is irrelevant. She just wants to raise her boys in a safe environment. Keep her out of this.”

Azriel paused and looked up. “I apologize if I have offended.”

“You haven’t.” Lucien smiled, small and tense and offended.

“We can move back to the Autumn court, then.”

And they did. Lucien gave it all away. The secrets of every lord, the intricacies of the Autumn court and its backstabbing and betrayal. Which lords would fight for Eris over Baron, which were reaching for the mantle of high lord themselves. His four remaining brothers, his two dead brothers.

He didn’t tell the shadowsinger how he still dreamed of his closest brother in age, only a handful of years older, dead at Lucien’s own hands, his corpse lying beside their other brother, whom Tamlin had killed. He didn’t tell him about how his mother had forced a single family meal each week, and how the practice had ended once Lucien started seeing Jesminda. How it never started back again—how now, it never could. He didn’t tell Azriel how Baron used to offer personal lessons to Lucien in the swordplay ring. How they so quickly became violent. How Lucien was a damn fine swordsman—much better than his brothers—because of the lessons he learned so young. No, Lucien didn’t tell Azriel any of that. But he told him everything else.

It was nearing sunset by the time Lucien had finished laying his birth court bare before the spymaster.

"I apologize," Azriel nodded, brows furrowed. "I did not expect this meeting to last so long."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I—I suppose I…" Lucien trailed off. He didn't really know what he could've done differently in telling the spymaster. Azriel had asked for information about the Autumn court, Lucien had provided it.

"No, I've misspoken." Azriel said, "The information you provided will likely prove vital in our efforts in the war. Thank you, on behalf of the Night Court."

Lucien huffed half a laugh at that.

"It's no problem at all. Kill them all, for all I care. I'm sure someone will rise from the ashes, desperate to make the Autumn court a better place."

_ Not me, though. Even I, as much of a romantic as I am, have given up on that court. _

The spymaster's expression was odd as he examined Lucien. Lucien stewed in the silence, suddenly uncomfortable.

"Well. Now that I have given you everything I know, I can walk myself to the High Lord's townhouse. The fresh air will be…. Nice…. Before…" The spymaster just furrowed his brows some more, cocking his head slightly. "Right, of course," smiled Lucien. "You will have to escort me, I'm sure. That's fine, I shall not resist!"

"Why am I escorting you to Rhys' house?" The spymaster asked, and there was a hint of dry humor in his expression.

"It's um—well, as a member of his inner circle, I was foolish to assume you cannot pass judgment yourself. Forgive me for my own lapse of judgement."

Silence, long and cold. Lucien felt the shadowsinger’s full gaze on him, unyielding and sharp.

"You smell sour." Which meant, of course,  _ you smell afraid _ .

"Yes, well I do rather appreciate my freedom. As well as my… intestines. The thought of losing either is not one I look forward to."

Azriel examined Lucien for another long moment.

"Have you betrayed this court?"

"No."

"Do you plan to betray this court?"

"No."

"Well, then as long as the answers to those questions remain the same, so too shall the state of your freedom and… intestines."

Nothing. There was nothing in his mind for a moment. And then,  _ oh. _

_ I have grossly miscalculated. _

"Wonderful." Lucien said tersely. "Well then. I should be returning—to the townhouse—not the High Lord and Lady’s—the other one. It's rather late, and I'm—hungry."

Azriel did not offer to accompany Lucien back to the townhouse, and Lucien was immensely grateful. He left the office quickly.

The air in the Night Court was, like everything there, much sharper than the Spring Court. The Spring Court was all flowers and soft, warm breezes. The air in the Night Court was biting and smelled of the sea. Lucien took deep breaths as he walked, appreciating the honesty of the breeze. The air, the _ streets _ and the  _ people  _ here kept no secrets from each other. He watched the city move around him as he walked south, a sea breeze whipping his hair into disarray.

He didn’t know where he was when he came back to himself, but the sea stood before him, separated from Lucien by a stone railing. The sun set in its brilliant oranges and pinks across the wine-dark sea.

“Which one are you?” Lucien asked mildly, feeling a presence behind him.

“The unappreciated one,” a dry voice responded, and Lucien froze. He turned slowly, and bowed low.

The silver-eyed dread goddess chuckled as Lucien rose, walking past Lucien and leaning against the railing, looking out at the sea as Lucien had. Lucien, slowly, turned back around, mimicking her posture.

“This is my city,” she said quietly, though her voice cut through the wind like a honed blade. “Rhys and his ilk lead it, but it is mine to protect… for as long as I am here.”

Lucien said nothing.

“I would burn my soul to the last ember—reduce the rest of this world to ash—for this city, for these people.” Lucien couldn’t tell if she was threatening him or not. “And yet,” she continued, “I am not from here.”

She pulled something out of a pocket, and handed it to Lucien silently. It was a letter, sealed and pulsing with magic.

“You will know when to open it.”

And then she left. Lucien put the letter in a pocket and walked back to the townhouse.

* * *

Cassian and Azriel were at the townhouse when he returned, shoving food down their mouths like protective hounds.

“Lucien,” Cassian said through a mouthful of food. “Food.”

“I already ate,” Lucien lied, heading towards the stairs.

“You don’t have any money, dumbass,” Cassian retorted.

Lucien paused and, sighing slightly, turned around. Cassian grinned widely, food in his teeth, jerking his chin to the kitchen. Lucien followed the clear instructions, finding a large pot of some sort of meat and vegetable soup steaming on the stovetop. He ladeled out a bowl, and, reluctantly, sat down at the table where the Illyrians were.

“So,” Cassian grinned between thick spoonfuls, “This food better or worse than Spring Court?”

Lucien smiled softly between spoonfuls, indulging the Illyrian. “Spring Court food is formal. Every meal is an event. This food has more…  _ heart  _ than Rosehall.”

Lucien had rarely had a meal in Rosehall where he didn’t have to switch forks halfway through due to a social etiquette he silently resented. That was a stark contrast to the Night Court, where Cassian was currently drinking directly from the bowl, wiping the broth spilling down his chin away with the back of his hand. Azriel, at least, continued to use his spoon as he stared at his brother in arms with mild disappointment.

“So,” Cassian said in the proceeding silence, “How’d you fall in love with a dick like Tamlin?”

Lucien heard the sound of boot on flesh as Azriel kicked Cassian under the table.

He smiled softly, and felt as the expression sunk into a grimace.

“Through a series of poor decisions and even poorer luck.”

He heard Cassian kick Azriel back.

“Nailed that one right on the fucking head,” Cassian said, grinning again. “He good in bed, at least?”

“Cassian.” Azriel said, exasperated and tense.

Lucien didn’t look at him, maintaining eye contact with Cassian. “Rhys is better, actually.”

Cassian choked. Azriel just sighed, setting his spoon down.

“When’d’ya fuck  _ Rhys _ ?” Cassian asked when he had composed himself again. There was a grin on his face from ear to ear.

Lucien sighed, moving chunks of meat around in his bowl. “Under the Mountain.”

Cassian’s grin faltered.

“Heh. Right…” the Illyrian trailed off.

“Yes,” Lucien continued, “He was taunting Tamlin. I went to his room, told him he was going to get killed—was going to get us all stuck under there. And we made love for the night, crying in each other’s arms as we lamented our coming fate.” Lucien smiled humorlessly, darker memories flashing in his eyes.

Silence.

“Sorry,” Cassian muttered.

“It's fine,” Lucien muttered, back, hunching over his own food, shoveling the soup into his mouth as the Illyrians had when he entered.

He finished the soup quickly after that, and excused himself with a vague grunt.

* * *

He couldn’t sleep. Not as Cassian had wrenched forth memories of the Under the Mountain. Memories which brought forth memories of Tamlin’s whip, and further back, memories of Amarantha holding him down, ripping out his eye with her nail.

* * *

Lucien learned one thing about Rhys that night, throwing the sheets off of himself for the last time and padding to the kitchenette outside of the bedroom: his liquor was expensive, and he kept extra bottles under the sink.

The Night Court wasn’t  _ home _ . Lucien didn’t think it ever would be—Lucien didn’t think he would ever have a home again. But for now, for one night, and the night after, and maybe the night after that, it was a nice enough place to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, I totally thought I had published this chapter.  
> For my fellow Americans, happy Thanksgiving! I hope you ate lots of turkey, and were able to drown your sorrows in mashed potatoes.
> 
> Here's what to expect with this series going forward:
> 
> Home Again: one more chapter! And then this story will be complete.
> 
> Courtly Promises: unpublished one-shot exploring the question 'what if Lucien had been at the High Lords meeting?' Will be posted as part 4 in the series "Lucien has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Year." It's gonna set the foundations for Cassian/Azriel/Lucien friendship/relationship stuff, so keep an eye out for that! Also - more Tamlin-related angst.
> 
> And lastly, the thus far unnamed final part of this series, which will explore Lucien after the war as he balances his possible new life in the Night Court, his relationship with the batboys, his mind's desire to begin healing, and his fractured relationship with the Spring Court.
> 
> The final chapter of 'Home Again', the entirety of 'Courtly Promises,' and the first chapter of the thus far unnamed story will be posted in succession. This is because I really don't want to lose any of you in the transition, but i really need to retire this particular story so I can get a fresh start with these characters using the writing I've already published.
> 
> Okay, with that in mind, I can't wait for y'all to see where this is going! I'm super excited for y'all to read 'courtly promises' in particular, I literally just finished the first draft, and am super excited about it.
> 
> Concerning this Chapter:  
> Okay I know I keep bringing up stuff from older chapters and previous stories in this series. I honestly do that to remind y'all as well as myself what has happened so far. If it seems repetitive, idk man lmk in the comments.  
> Okay we all love Cassian but he would be a pain in the ASS to talk to if you had trauma, can we all agree? Like this dude deals with like... war vets, who aren't delicate about ANYTHING. My mans would SUCK at this. But I still love him.  
> On that note it is so hard to write Lucien/Azriel without Cassian. You'll see this later on but like, the more that I think about it the more I realize that Lucien and Azriel, even if the both had feelings for each other, would just sit and pine and refuse to acknowledge it. You need to throw in some Cassian going 'wtf is going on' for anything to happen. Ugh. I love it. Okay, my eyes are getting blurry. I need to get off my computer and publish this. I love yall.
> 
> Comment and lmk your thoughts!


	19. Finale: leaving Velaris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing was taking too long, and since this one was already edited, i figured i'd post it. Enjoy the end of this segment of this series!

The members of the Night Court’s inner circle were gracious enough to ignore Lucien after that. When he could, he would provide a neutral location he thought the High Lords may agree on. They would nod gratefully, and Lucien would be ignored again. He finished  _ Out of the Mountain - An Examination of the Illyrian Forces throughout Prythian’s History, _ just as he finished  _ Lesser Fae, and why we shouldn’t call them that _ , and  _ An Examination of Hybern’s Economy in a Post-Wall World and the Resulting Cultural Changes Thereof _ . He watched the Archeron sisters deteriorate. Feyre, struggling with the power she now held. Nesta, bitter and cruel and broken, and Elain, so thoroughly shattered Lucien didn’t know if this little inner circle would ever manage to put her back together again. He watched as they left and returned from under their own mountain, and he watched as they discovered Elain’s true nature, that of a seer, and its implication for her strange words. And then—

“I’ll go.” He barely knew what he was volunteering for. Something about a queen and— “I’ll go. To find this sixth queen.”

The Night Court was lovely. This  _ Velaris _ with its beautiful ocean and laughing children. But Lucien was  _ bored _ , and once again without purpose. There was a war outside of these walls—in these walls, if the blood on Rhys’ hands was any indication. Feyre and Nesta had been attacked  _ today _ . Lucien had been given permission by Rhys to sit this war out completely, but it didn’t mean that he had to  _ take  _ it. This city was at stake. Alis and her boys, the fae in the Autumn court and Spring. In  _ every _ court and beyond, people were going to die. Lucien, at least, had a chance to save a few lives. A chance to  _ do _ something.

“What makes you think you could find her?” Rhys asked, and Lucien only smiled.

_ You’re a perpetual worrier. _

“This eye… It can see things that others… can’t. Spells, glamorous…. Perhaps it can help me find her. And break her curse.” The room looked uncertain. “I’m not needed here. I’ll fight if you need me to, but…” Feyre looked ready to heave. Leadership was so obviously new to her. He offered a soft smile, reassuring as he could make it. “I do not belong in the Autumn Court. And I’m willing to bet I’m no longer welcome at h—The Spring Court.” _ What do they say about old habits?  _ “But I cannot sit here and do nothing. Those queens with their armies—there is a threat in that regard, too. So use me. Send me. I will find Vassa, see if she can… bring help.”

“You will be going into the human territory,” Rhys warned, “I can’t spare a force to guard you—” Objectively, the thought of Rhys being willing to spare Lucien a force was endearing. Emotionally, it felt too much like Tamlin sending Lucien out with a squad of sentries to watch over him.

“I don’t need one. I travel faster on my own. I will find her. And if there’s an army to bring back, or at least some way for her own story to sway the human forces… I’ll find a way to do that, too.”

Surprisingly, it was Mor who spoke. Mor, who had hitherto not spoken a word to Lucien. “It will be—very dangerous.”

Lucien smiled at that, too. The old thrill of something almost forgotten began to thaw his bones. “Good. It’d be boring otherwise.”

Cassian, who had been tense and awkward and  _ weird _ around Lucien these past few days, grinned wide and open at Lucien’s words. “I’ll load you up with some Illyrian steel.”

It must have been decided, then, for it was Rhys who spoke next, resigned and stressed and relieved and a dozen other things: “I’ll winnow you as close as we can get—to wherever you need to be to begin your hunt.” And then, “Thank you.”

Lucien shrugged.

“Are you sure?” Feyre asked, concern so clearly etched in her expression.

Lucien glanced around the room, at a family who could not afford to be separated right now. At a court who needed each other, and needed him to do other things they were all too polite to ask him to do.

“Yes. Let me help in whatever way I can.”

“When do you want to leave?” Feyre asked, resigned beside her mate.

“Tomorrow. I’ll prepare for the rest of today, and leave after breakfast tomorrow morning.” Yes, that was fire and magic, pure and hot in his bones which pulsed _.  _ “If that works for you,” he added to Rhys.

Rhys waved him off. “For what you’re about to do, Lucien, we’ll make it work.”

The silence that enveloped the room thrummed with promises of a dangerous future.

Rhys turned to Azriel, who vanished. He then turned to Mor and Cassian. “Find out if Keir and his Darkbringers had any attacks.” They nodded, and left too, pulled away by Mor’s winnowing.

Nesta, Feyre, and Rhys walked upstairs, leaving Lucien with Elain. Perhaps they didn’t have the heart to move her as she gazed at an embroidered pillow with rapt attention. Lucien would have felt bad moving her, too. 

He turned to leave.

“You are life and fire and sparks.” Elain’s voice, clear and odd. “But I see darkness—an ever present tundra of whispers and wind and nothing when I look to the sea. Your fate is interwoven with the fire bird’s, just as it is interwoven with roses and the crunching of leaves, and the sparks of iron, and the— _ cold _ .”

Silence.

“This—cold. Is it death?” Lucien asked, because he was always too curious for his own good.

But Elain said nothing, attention slowly turning back to the pillow, which she traced with soft hands.

* * *

Cassian kept his cache of weapons in the House of Wind. And a cache he did have. Swords and bows and daggers and axes and dozens of other weapons, each hung or stored in their prospective places.

Lucien weighed many of the weapons in his grip. Cassian was kind enough to allow Lucien to try swinging them in the training yard, which Lucien did only to feel how they moved with the wind. In the end, he picked an Illyrian blade, a shortsword, an assortment of daggers, along with a longbow. He was given armor and clothes, too, and a pack of supplies. In a hidden pocket of the clothes, Lucien stored the letter Amren had given him days ago.

“You know precisely where you want Rhys to take you?” Feyre asked, the expression of a mother hen etched on her face as she wrung her hands in worry.

Lucien nodded, awkwardly patting her back as she pulled him into a hug. “Thank you,” she murmured into his leathers.

“It was time,” Lucien said, squeezing her back, “For me to do something.”

“Thank you,” she said again, stepping back. Rhys replaced her, holding out a hand.

And then, with little fuss, they were gone.

The air smelled of seabrine and woodlands. In the distance, Rhys and Lucien saw the rising smoke and light of a small city.

“Are you sure about this?” Rhys asked dryly, looking as if he already knew the answer.

“I’m sure.”

“Before I go,” Rhys said, hands slipping back into his pockets and pulling out a small item. He handed it to Lucien with little ceremony.

Lucien stared at it, heavy and cool in his palm. “The Night Court sigil.” he finally said.

“Close. Turn it over.” Lucien did. “The Night Court on one side, my family’s personal sigil on the other.”

Lucien didn’t move— _ couldn’t. _

“Why.”

“Maybe twenty were made— _ millenia _ ago. Cas and Az each have one—though I have a sneaking suspicion Cas lost his centuries ago. Amren’s is being used as a paperweight, last I saw. Mor doesn’t get one, unfortunately. She has her own family crest to worry about. And Feyre, well she’s a part of my family via matehood, and thus doesn’t need one.”  _ I know how family sigils work _ , Lucien almost spit out.

“Why,” he repeated instead.

“Maybe you’ll need it. Maybe not.” Rhys’ hands had slid back into his pockets.

“Rhys.”

“What?” Rhys asked, and there was a light in his violent eyes as he turned to Lucien.

“I do not deserve this. Please, take it back.”

“Lucien, you are a member of my court for as long as you wish to be. You are a member of my inner circle for as long as you wish to be. That…  _ rock _ ,” he gestured to the priceless stone in Lucien’s hand, “Is tangible proof of that. Let it act as such.”

“I—”  _ Can’t accept? Must refuse? _

“—Am honored?” Rhys tried, interrupting Lucien’s stuttering. “I thought so. Come back home when you’re done with this.”

Lucien was silent for a long moment, and slowly, with gentle but sure hands, he closed his hand on the sigil, feeling it's cool weight against his skin.

“Thank you.”

Rhys shrugged. “It’s no problem at all.” And then he was gone.

There was a dirt path a quarter mile south. Lucien spun his glamors, replacing his gold eye with a cloudy blue, and his sharp ears and expression with something much softer—something much more human. And he began walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh I've been meaning to link this but keep forgetting:  
> Lucien Pinterest Board: https://pin.it/7AtqgZn
> 
> We did it! We survived Lucien suffering!  
> Like I said in the last chapter, the next work posted will be 'Courtly Promises'. You can find that in the next few days in this same series this work is a part of (https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896466), so make sure you're subscribed to that so you can get an email notification when Courtly Promises and future Lucien works are published.
> 
> I've had so much fun this work, and I am so grateful for everyone who's read this work so far, and am especially grateful towards those of you who comment everytime i post another chapter. You guys have no idea how inspiring that is. Thank you. I hope to continue to entertain.


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